Clean Sheet
by scriptmanip
Summary: AU:Emily & Naomi end up playing for the same football club in London, but challenges on the pitch are the least of their struggles. Katie/Effy make a strong surge in plot as well at some point.
1. Chapter 1: The Pitch

**Author's Note:** Trying out a new idea here that was borne out of two unrelated events. 1) I became completely engrossed in the women's football tournament of the summer Olympics and 2) I watched a vid of Lily talking about growing up watching Arsenal football with her dad that was so adorable I almost punched my monitor. This is also the first time I'm trying my hand at Skins: AU. I've only written the first chapter so I'd love to know what you think of the general idea. I can tell you it will in no way be all football and sporty and that I've got some twists up my sleeve to be revealed later on. Hope you enjoy! Cheers, SM

** I can't take credit for Skins any more than I can successfully keepy-uppy. But I have a deep admiration those who can do either.

* * *

The sun is high and hot in mid-afternoon, and the practice pitch feels stifling. Naomi's neck and arms glisten with perspiration, beads of sweat rolling down her temples. Her blonde curls are tied loosely in a messy ponytail, but the tendrils around the nape of her neck are soaked through. She reaches down for the hem of her jersey and lifts it up to wipe her face. And that's when the football smacks hard against her stomach.

"Fuck!" Naomi drops her jersey and shoots daggers at her nearest teammate.

A girl with a thicker frame and jet black hair pulled tight into a ponytail laughs at Naomi clutching her abdomen. "Maybe you should stop fucking flaunting it if you don't want it used as a target, Campbell." The girl's skin is the color of cocoa, her cheeks and nose covered in light brown freckles.

"It's not my fault you can't keep your eyes off my body, is it?"

The ball has landed at Naomi's feet and with one swift movement, she swings her right leg sending the football rocketing into the left corner of the net. The rest of the team is scattered around on half of the pitch, running drills while Naomi retrieves the football from the back of the goal and rolls it out to the girl with dark hair.

"It's bloody warm out here," the girl complains, wiping the back of her hand against her forehead to clear the sweat.

"Fucking tell me about it. I'm sweating my tits off out here," Naomi answers. "Liv, who is that with Coach Farley and the gaffer?"

The dark-haired girl pauses where she has lined up the ball on the penalty mark and turns to follow Naomi's gaze to the right touchline. Two men stand, arms folded behind their backs, on either side of a petite girl with pale features and dark clothes, a blaze of red hair falling onto her shoulders. If the club manager is making an appearance, it can only mean one thing.

"New potential," Liv surmises.

"Is that a loaded answer?" Naomi smiles, resting her hands on her hips.

Liv turns her head back round. "Maybe for you," she laughs.

Naomi feels a quick wind whip past her elbow as Liv sails the ball into the net, but Naomi's eyes never leave the girl with fiery red hair and a determined scowl. The men are pointing about the pitch, referencing things from the coach's clipboard, but the girl shows very little reaction other than slight nods. She is smaller, yes, but is stood too far off for Naomi to really gauge her build. She isn't dressed out in a kit like the other girls but wears olive trousers rolled up just above her ankles and a fitted black tank top. When the girl reaches up to brush a strand of hair from her face, Naomi strains to see the definition in her triceps, but a loud howl sounds out and breaks her concentration.

"Oh, Christ. Him again." Liv is placing the football back at the penalty mark and lining up for another practice shot.

A wide smile breaks across Naomi's face when she sees Cook dancing along the left touchline, waving his arms about. She runs full sprint towards him, throwing her arms around his neck when she reaches him. Cook spins her about, planting a quick kiss on her mouth.

"Fucking hell, Blondie, you're covered in sweat." He sets her back down on the grass and feigns brushing perspiration from his own clothes.

"Thought you'd always dreamed of seeing me work up a sweat."

"Yeah, well, that fantasy also involves you cupping my balls, doesn't it?"

"You're disgusting, do you know that?"

"Yeah, you love me. And so does your mate," Cook adds, nodding towards the team.

"That right? Which one?"

"I'll have to let you know on that one, Naomikins. I've only just arrived, haven't I?"

"How long are you here?"

"Couple-a days. JJ's conference has got us put up in a posh hotel, and I couldn't let all that potential go to waste on him watching scientific documentaries on the tele, could I?"

"Your life of leisure is something to be admired, Cook," Naomi deadpans. "What do you plan to do with JJ's lush living quarters exactly?"

"Throw a fucking party of course! So how's about you chip in, yeah? Invite some of the ladies?"

"You know I can't go off the rails with you, Cook. We're gearing up for a tournament."

"Come on, blondie. Don't fail the cookie monster now. I'll bring the booze, you bring the breasts." Cook uses both hands, pretends to grab at tits on his own chests and smiles with his tongue out.

"You know I _hate_ it when you refer to yourself as the cookie monster," Naomi admits, crinkling up her face. "I'll see what I can do. Call you after practice."

Naomi turns and jogs back onto the pitch, Cook's howls trailing behind her. Midway to the goal she looks up to see the girl's eyes on her. She looks away immediately once Naomi has spotted her, but a smile creeps over Naomi's lips at the prospect of being watched. So when she approaches Liv, lining up for another penalty kick, Naomi cuts in, swiping the football with her right foot.

"Hey!" Liv darts after her, but Naomi dances the ball between her feet, keeping it away from her teammate.

After a few quick steps, Naomi spins, wrapping one arm around Liv to hold her out of the way and slides the football with her left foot before connecting with the inside of her right boot and sending it soaring through the air. The ball skims just under the crossbar and into the net. Naomi turns to gloat at Liv with a broad smile, and quickly cuts her eyes towards the redhead, but the touchline is empty.

"Campbell!" The coach's thick Scottish accent rings out in closer proximity than Naomi is expecting. "I'm not fucking paying you to make Malone look bad, for fuck's sake, so why don't you stick to the practice regimen and stop wasting my bloody time!"

"Yes. Sorry - sorry, coach," Naomi stutters, but is almost immediately distracted when she notices her new potential teammate has also trailed behind the coach.

"This young lass is considering a transfer from Bristol Academy. Plays midfield," the coach nods his head towards the girl behind him. "So if you don't care to take this position with a more serious effort, you've got other bloody prospects on your heels. Got it?"

"Yessir," Naomi nods, chewing hard on the flesh inside her cheek to keep any smartass remarks from tumbling out.

She knows the coach is bluffing, knows that he went out of his way to get her into this club back when she was still scouting out her options in the senior league. She knows his bark is loud but his bite virtually nonexistent. She knows his empty threats have everything to do with the redhead and little to do with herself, so she rakes her top lip along her teeth and tries to measure the amount of times she allows her eyes to flicker over to the new girl.

"Right," the coach moves his hand to the girl's shoulder and guides her forward so that she is stood directly in front of Naomi.

Naomi quickly lets her eyes dart up the girl's frame - slender waist, taut stomach, strong shoulders. She's small but sturdy. It's when Naomi's eyes reach the girl's face that her stomach starts to twist. It's something about the cut of her jaw or the shape of her eyebrows or the gloss on her lips. And then it registers: her eyes. Deep, penetrating brown, locked with her own, and the heat that rises through Naomi's chest and neck has nothing to do with the sun's glare.

"Fitch, er uh …" the coach fumbles, uselessly scanning his clipboard.

"Emily." Her voice comes out low and raspy, like she spends every night drinking whiskey and smoking fags, and the weird feeling in Naomi's stomach starts to drift south. She extends her hand towards Naomi.

"Right. Emily. This is Campbell and Malone." His mobile lets out a series of beeps and he takes a few steps away to answer it.

Naomi's hand slips into Emily's of its own accord but she manages nothing more than a barely audible, "Hi," so Liv cuts in and explains, "I'm Malone, or Liv. This is Naomi."

"Cheers."

Emily smiles as the word crosses her lips and Naomi doesn't remember anything that happens from that point on, and actually has trouble remembering anything that has already happened in her life thus far. She doesn't remember her childhood in Highbury, learning the rules of football by watching the matches with her father. She doesn't remember moving to the smaller flat with the green-tiled bathroom after he left. She can't remember her first football match or how she got the scar along her left kneecap from colliding with Frances McKerney. She doesn't remember college, the marks she made or the drugs she tried. She has no memory of friends or football matches or scoring her first goal, her entire life sucked into a vacuum by one, single, breath-taking smile. That night, as she collapses into bed after a scorching hot shower and two bowls of beef stew, Naomi can remember nothing but Emily Fitch.

* * *

When Emily gets back to the hotel she draws a bath and soaks for well over an hour, stays in long after the water has stopped steaming up the glass and mirrors. When she steps out of the tub, she wraps herself in a thick, white dressing gown, crawls into bed and masturbates. She knows how to come quickly, with a rhythm and familiarity she's been practicing since she was fourteen, but she draws it out to last longer. Closes her eyes and arches her back to imagine blonde curls and soft, pink lips falling onto her neck and collarbone. She finishes without much fanfare because, in the end, there is no blonde girl with piercing blue eyes and long, fit limbs, and Emily has never been good at fantasizing while pleasuring herself anyway. She curls onto her side, the pillowcase damp on her skin from her washed hair, and stares at her mobile sitting beside the lamp but doesn't reach out for it.

"What? You've got plans on your only night in London?" Naomi's question had been more of a challenge and Emily considered lying for a half second just to prove her wrong.

"I could have plans," she'd said instead, which wasn't nearly as effective.

"Ha! But you don't!" Naomi was adorably triumphant and Emily had smiled at the time, much like she smiled now into the pillow at the memory of it. "I don't have my mobile, obviously," Naomi had commented, looking down and pulling at the sides of her shorts.

The blue nylon fell somewhere around upper thigh and then it was just legs for metres, leaving Emily no choice but to imagine very tawdry situations in which she might come in closer contact with them, wrapped around her, thrown over her shoulders, tangled up with her own legs in early morning sunlight.

"So take my number, yeah? The party will be a great way for you to meet the rest of the lads."

"Lads?" Emily's voice had been far away as she tore her consciousness away from the fantasy and back to the conversation.

"Yeah, that's right. The lads, the squad, the lot surrounding you, kicking those peculiar round objects about?"

It erupts out of nothing, the banter that shoots back and forth between them. The other girl called Liv is now obsolete and so it the rest of the team. Nothing else exists for a moment because Naomi's eyes are the color of a very specific blue somewhere between deep sea and afternoon sky. But it's more distinct than that too. It's the blue imagined by Michelangelo when he painted the Sistine Chapel, the blue that exists between man and deity, and Emily is unable to look away. So she takes her number, says she'll text or call, even though at the time she knows it's probably a lie.

She grabs the mobile, makes a call, waits.

"I wish you were here," she says before anything else.

The girl on the other end of the line laughs quietly, exhales smoke.

"I fucking hate London." She doesn't say it spitefully but evenly, unaffected.

"Well I hate traveling alone. What are you doing?" Emily flops over onto her back, runs the soft fabric of her dressing gown between her fingers.

"Seeing how many of these tiny blue pills I can take before slipping off into unconscious oblivion."

"Very not funny, Eff."

"Too soon?"

"It's always too soon for suicide jokes, thank you very much."

"Katie's here playing nanny, making sure I don't run my head into the window or anything."

Emily can hear something in the background that sounds like annoyed squawking and smiles at the thought of her sister keeping watch on her best friend while she's away. Her smile drops then when she realizes transitioning to the new club will also mean leaving Effy on a more permanent basis.

"So what, you're just sitting around in an empty hotel room on a Friday?"

"Maybe."

"Don't be a loser. Go out. Have drinks. Have drinks for _me_. Fucking do _something_. Hell, do someone."

Blue eyes flash in Emily's head and a throb between her legs starts up again.

Effy chides her for another ten minutes, and _Christ,_ even Katie gets on the line and joins in. Finally Emily has had enough of them both and hangs up. It's now half-past ten and Emily is riding the lift of a monstrous hotel to the fifteenth floor, wearing a short denim skirt and a low-cut top she's seriously reconsidering. She fiddles the charm at the end of a long, gold chain necklace as the floors tick by. She's ushered into the lush suite by a guy she doesn't know who looks nervous and jittery when he smiles, his brown curls cropped short and his face twitchy. Soon enough she recognizes a few faces from the practice pitch, like the girl with cappuccino skin, leaning against the back of a sofa, who's name escapes her as soon as Emily notices the platinum blonde standing beside her. Naomi is very animated when she talks, gesturing wildly and laughing openly, and Emily finds herself watching their interactions for longer than is probably socially acceptable. Except she can't help the way this girl just draws her in, and Emily is captivated by every movement and every expression. So the rest of the chaos around her falls away and voices and laughter become muffled, like hearing conversations from underwater. The hand on her bare shoulder is rough like sandpaper and brings a stench of nicotine. Emily jerks away and spins towards a guy with thick shoulders and a mischievous grin, an open bottle of brown liquor clenched in one hand.

"Hello, lovely. I don't think you've yet had the pleasure of my company."

"Charming." Emily tries to shrug the feel of his rough skin from her shoulder as she looks up at him in disgust.

"A little tense, are we? Come on then, let's get you good an liquored." He reaches for her arm again, but Emily steps back and collides with something much softer, much more feminine.

When she stumbles, trying to right her balance, Emily feels two warm hands with long fingers curl gently around her upper arms and quickly turns her head to lock eyes with the blue she's been seeing in her head all day.

"Sorry," Emily manages.

Naomi smiles down at her but quickly averts her eyes back up to the drunk boy in front of them.

"Fuck off, Cook. Don't you have enough to keep you occupied without assaulting the newcomer?" Naomi gestures about the room, filled significantly with girls in a variety of nightclub attire. Her other hand stays on Emily's left arm.

Cook laughs, takes a generous pull off his bourbon, and winks at them both. "No sense in fighting it, babe. Everyone warms up to Cook in the end. Just ask Naomikins."

Emily turns then, facing Naomi full on and can't stop her eyes from sweeping down her form. Her top is simple cotton, but clings to her frame just nicely. Faded black jeans with tears near the pockets and black canvas trainers.

"I'm not really one for dressing up." Naomi shrugs.

Emily blushes, knowing she's been caught perving a bit.

"You look nice though," Naomi comments, not hiding the way her eyes glide over Emily's features.

"Oh, I didn't really pack anything for, you know, going out."

"Well, if this is how you dress to _not_ go out, I'm curious to see what happens when we take you out properly after you've signed with the Gunners." Flirting had always come easily for Naomi, and particularly with someone as attractive as Emily, she found she really couldn't help herself.

"What makes you so sure I'll sign on?" Emily challenged, crossing her arms along her stomach.

"Because you'd have to be stupid not to, and something tells me, you're rather clever, Emily."

Emily gets utterly pissed after this. Too pissed, really. More pissed than she's comfortable with being in an unfamiliar city with people she doesn't know and ends up sitting far too close to Naomi on a small bench in the far corner of the balcony. With her mind foggy from gin and vodka and something pink and fruity the girls had called a Pussy Whip, Emily tries to sort out what she's managed to learn about Naomi. Because in the few short hours since she showed up, Emily and Naomi have barely spoken to anyone but each other. Mostly, she's stuck trying to determine if Naomi's proximity and attention is anything more than friendly. Naomi puts her hand at the small of Emily's back, guiding her through the crowded suite towards the bar. _Interested_. Naomi lets Cook wrap his arm around from behind and plant kisses on the crook of her neck. _Straight_. Naomi suggests the move to the balcony, away from the crowd, away from nearly everyone save a few lone smokers. _Interested_. Emily's brain ping-pongs like this until she's too drunk to keep score, and at this point in the night she doesn't much care because their arms are close enough that she can feel heat radiating off Naomi's bare skin.

* * *

The breeze on the balcony is light and cool, a nice reprieve from the crowded hotel suite full of warm, drunk bodies. It's become clear that Emily is drunk. Drunker than Naomi, and try as she might, Naomi can't help from finding it incredibly adorable. Because when Emily is drunk, Emily smiles. Constantly. She's not the quiet, guarded girl she met on the pitch. She's relaxed and conversational and flirtatious and fucking irresistible. Naomi keeps clenching the wooden seat of the bench in an attempt to keep from touching Emily's upper arm, or hand, or exposed thigh. It's a challenge of self-will that Naomi feels she's losing with every sip of peach cider.

Emily is finishing a story about learning to keepy-uppy or taking the training wheels off her first bicycle or something about her sister, but Naomi isn't concentrating on the details because Emily is giggling, her dark eyes sparkling like the laughter is exploding new stars all over the cosmos. At this point, Naomi realizes that she's either going to take Emily back to her flat and properly ruin that denim skirt by ripping it at the seams, or put her promptly in a taxi and send her off.

The ride down to the main lobby is excruciating because Emily keeps losing her balance as the lift pauses from floor to floor, until Naomi finally slips her arm around her waist to keep her steady. When they push through the revolving glass of the front entrance, a mini taxi is already waiting to take Emily back to her hotel. _Do not shag the new potential._ _Do not shag the new potential. Do not shag the new potential even though she smells like tropical islands and spearmint_. Naomi's inner voice is on repeat even as she opens the door of the taxi.

"It's good that you came," Naomi says, trying to steady her breathing as Emily turns to face her.

"Yeah, it was fun. You're - you're fun," Emily laughs at herself and Naomi winces at an urge to ignore her moral code. "I mean, it was fun hanging out with you." Emily licks her lips, bites the lower, looks from Naomi's eyes to her mouth and back.

"Well, I'm loads of fun after 12 cocktails. Under normal circumstances I'm rather boring."

"That right?" Emily's smile is waning, and the shift towards serious makes Naomi's stomach rise to her throat then drop suddenly to her ankles.

"Yep."

It happens then, and it's as if Naomi knew from the minute she stood across from Emily earlier that day that it was only a matter of time. She's not in control of her own actions and decides it would be impossible for anyone to lock eyes with Emily Fitch and _not_ end up colliding with her mouth. So she's not really at fault, then, when her hand rises slowly to Emily's stomach and pushes her gently a short distance backwards until Emily is backed against the car. Emily's eyes are already closed when Naomi's lips find hers, and she grasps at the loose sides of Naomi's shirt until Naomi is flush against her. The movement of Naomi's mouth is both soft and desperate, and in her uninhibited stupor, Emily lets out a quiet moan. It's then that Naomi pulls away, and rather abruptly. Her breath is jagged and she looks almost pained when she pulls back and looks at Emily.

"You've got to go."

Emily puts up an admirable fight against getting in the taxi, but eventually loses the battle to a decidedly less-drunk Naomi. Once the car has pulled away from the curb and Emily's tiny red head is completely out of view, Naomi runs her fingers through her hair, lets out an exasperated _Fucking hell_, and turns to head back inside.


	2. Chapter 2: Avoid the Drop

**Author's Note:** So glad the first chapter and general concept seems to be a success. So, without any delay, onto the second! As always, thanks for reading and letting me know what you think about this little drabble.

** All characters are the property of Skins. Except for Emily, she belongs to Naomi.

* * *

When Emily sits up in bed, her hands immediately fly to the sides of her head, palms pressing into her temples for relief that isn't there. She hears it again, the light rapping on the hotel door, and makes an attempt to stand beside the bed. The movement sends spears of pain shooting through her skull and even her spine feels like it's throbbing.

"Oh fuck. Fuckfuck_fuck_." She pads carefully in bare feet across the floor, palms still planted to the sides or her head and fingers entangled in mussed red hair.

It's only after she's swung the door open wide that Emily registers the widened (then downcast) eyes of the hotel staff are probably due to her standing in the doorway in knickers and precious little else. She attempts to eat the room service she doesn't remember ordering and spends a good ten minutes lying face down in the blankets and starched white sheets trying to will away an urge to vomit. Somewhere her mobile buzzes and by the time she's retrieved it, she's missed Effy's call. There are other notifications on the screen and suddenly the will to fight against regurgitation alludes her as she lurches towards the loo.

After she vomits, she showers. Lets the water rush over her face, hot beads pelting against her neck and skull, and the steam stifling against the glass and tile is almost making it hard to breathe. When she steps out, she feels less like death, but something else starts to settle over her. A nonspecific uneasiness seeps under her skin and starts to ache in her bones, working its way through her body like a virus. With a shaky hand she reaches across the bed for her mobile and looks back to the text messages she hadn't been prepared to view 45 minutes earlier. She sees Naomi's three responses first before daring to scroll back up and see her own sent progressively at 1:15, 1:17, 1:18 a.m. The pit of her stomach feels hollow, acid rising up the back of her throat when she scans her drunken slurs typed irreversibly on the touchscreen.

1:15 You should ahve come withme  
1:17 I wantd to see those blueeyes wen I wake up  
1:18 Lets get breakfest?

Emily brushes her teeth three more times before leaving the hotel, hauling her small tote bag to the taxi rank. On the train, she sits in an empty row, legs stretched out across all the seats, and leans her head against the window as her body moves to they rhythm of the swaying car along the tracks. With little success she plays the night over again and again in her head, trying to sort out just where she lost track.

She arrives at the party. She watches Naomi. She feels hands on her, first rough and unwelcome then soft and warm, with a natural sort of comfort. She relaxes with drinks, with conversation, with proximity, with a calming blue. She can see Naomi's face contorted in animated expression, spread wide in laughter, can _hear_ her laughter for fuck's sake. But as the night wears on in her mind, Emily's field of vision begins to lessen. The scope of what she can see as small as a pin prick until it disappears almost entirely.

Sometime later she wakes up from dozing off, the gentle sways of the train having lulled her busy mind to rest. But when she comes fully to, the anxiety starts to course through her again, this time of something more specific. A mini taxi, a moment of lost inhibition, a tall blonde, and spiced cider kisses. Kissing. Oh fuck. Kissing. Emily clenches her eyes shut, raises her palms to her eye sockets and rests her elbows on her knees now pulled to her chest.

"Oh fucking _shit_."

Her mobile buzzes again and this time she catches Effy on the second ring.

"Hey."

"You sound well."

"I've been better."

"Katie is picking me up in a few. What time does your train get in?"

"Half past noon," Emily answers, one palm still pressed against her forehead.

"So."

"So … what?"

"So tell me the good bits before your sister gets here. You know she doesn't have the kind of appreciation for your shagging conquests that I do."

"Eff …"

"Go on then," Effy prods.

"I think I really fucked up."

"Christ, did you shag the coach or something?"

"No!" This makes Emily laugh for the first time all day, the thought of rotund, old Coach Farley with his sparse greying hair and bloodshot eyes.

"I didn't - I didn't pull at all. And I wasn't trying to," she says this last bit more to herself than to Effy.

"All right then, out with it."

"I think I snogged one of the girls on the team, Eff. Like properly snogged. And possibly propositioned her back to my hotel."

Effy's laugh comes out sharp and genuine. "Well played. Didn't fall for your charm then?"

"Thing is, I'm fairly certain she's straight." Emily's face creases as she says this, as if not ready to admit the truth of it.

"Oh lovely! Well done, Em. _Really_ well done."

"Thanks for the support," Emily says dryly.

"You'll be fine. She was probably chuffed to be kissed by another girl. Probably wrote about it in her diary. Fuck, Katie's just pulled up - I've got to go. We'll see you in a bit, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Try not to accost any other unsuspecting heteros between now and then?"

Emily doesn't answer, just whimpers helplessly before ending the call and letting her forehead crash into her kneecaps.

* * *

Naomi stays in bed all day. Doesn't shower. Doesn't bother dressing. Lies naked, curled against cotton bed linens. Not because she's hungover, but because Emily has left her feeling incapacitated. Her limbs are like weights, her head unable to form complete thoughts. She thinks in colors and scents, the only senses that still seem to be functioning. She sees red and smells fresh pine. She sees impossibly deep brown and thinks of petrol, tastes sugary sweet fruits. Pussy Whip. She smiles at the memory and brings three fingers to rest gently on her upper lip. She tries to remember that it was incredibly stupid and thoughtless to kiss Emily. Tries to remember that maintaining a level of professionalism is what's kept her on her game for this long, has kept her excelling in football. In what she's always wanted. But as Naomi twists her legs further into the sheets and rolls over onto her side, she thinks only about how lovely it would be to turn and find Emily there. She looks across the empty bed, imagines what it might look like with vibrant red splayed across the pillow and Emily's tiny frame weighting down into the mattress. She thinks about how long her eyelashes must look when she sleeps and how innocent her eyes must be when she awakes. Not the kind of seductive glint she'd seen in them last night when they broke apart.

"You're lucky you made it back up here." Liv had met her near the entrance of the suite almost immediately upon her return to the dwindling party. "Else I'd have to kick your ass."

"What are you talking about?" Naomi had shrugged casually even though she felt sure the sides of her top would still be crinkled the way Emily had clutched it so desperately.

"What are you talking about?" Liv had repeated in a mocking tone and slugged Naomi's shoulder.

"Ow! Fuck, what are you on about?"

"OK. Fine, Campbell." Liv had then raised her hands to Naomi, palms up and smiled. "Just remember where this is headed, yeah?"

"Where what is headed?"

"This." Liv waves her hand around the room. "Us. Your mates. We're on our way to another unbeatable season. Keep your head straight, yeah? Well," Liv shrugs and laughs. "You know what I mean."

"Nothing happened, Liv. We talked. She's nice. Serious about playing. Serious like us. I just wanted to make sure she got back alright." Naomi is talking, rather genuinely, she thinks. But Liv just stands in front of her smirking. "_What_?"

It was then that Liv moved her hand towards Naomi's face, and Naomi had backed away with a scowl. Undeterred, Liv finally grabbed onto Naomi's chin and ran her thumb roughly across the skin under Naomi's bottom lip.

"Good color on you. You know, for someone who isn't in the habit of wearing lipstick."

Her face had burned hot at the time, but any embarrassment at being found out by one of her best mates had now vanished. Liv didn't mince her fucking words, which is why Naomi had been so drawn to her from the start. She wasn't made of iron but still a bit rough around the edges in a way that Naomi had always found admirable. Naomi thinks about her mum's house and for a fleeting moment, considers spending her next off day on a visit. She thinks about how little she sees her now, having settled in London nearly five years ago. Gina won't come to London. Hates big cities, hates traffic, hates trains and the bustle of city life. She grows her own herbs, brews her own tea, takes life at a slower pace. A pace that never would have suited Naomi and her fast-track towards international success on the pitch. Naomi needs to be moving at all times, thinks feeling settled means nothing more than settling.

Before she lets her head go crazy making travel plans, Naomi shuts it down and admits that seeing Gina has very little do with her and everything to do with Bristol. And Emily. And needing to see her again before two weeks when she expects her to return and join the club officially. Two fucking weeks. Her skin starts to crawl, her bones tensing and feeling restless at the notion of waiting 14 days before seeing Emily's crooked grin. She can't figure out the urgency or the distress that follows this thought, and she doesn't wait around to sort it out. In another ten minutes, she's dressed and jogging towards Emirates Stadium. Naomi never wallows about or allows herself to marinate in emotional distress. She copes by working it out. Works and pushes and sweats and when she's at the breaking point, pushes herself a step further. The stadium will be empty today and halfway there, Naomi feels a surge of adrenalin at the prospect of an empty space to practice. She craves the solitude at that moment more than she has in months. By the time she's finished and returned to her flat, all the nonsense about the girl she's barely met will have vanished. She's sure of it.

* * *

Katie has no patience for Emily's moping and after the third day she stalks across the kitchen and slams something down on the table in front of Emily.

"Jesus, Katie!"

Katie says nothing, just crosses her arms across her chest and raises her eyebrows. Emily thinks she may as well be tapping her foot noisily as well. The object in front of her is her mobile.

"_What_?"

"Fucking call already, Emily! You're driving me fucking crazy and there's only room for one mental case in this sodding flat. No offense, Eff," She turns her head on the last bit and directs it into the sitting room where Effy's tiny limbs are always curled up on the sofa watching tele.

"I can't - I can't call her!" Emily looks at Katie like she's sprouted a second head.

"Not _her_, you twat. I don't give a shit about some slag you tried to bed. I'm talking about the club. I'm talking about the opportunity to play for one of the highest ranked football clubs in Britain, for fucks's sake." Her voice softens when she says, "You're done with Bristol, Ems. It's time to do what you've always been meant to do, and the chance to do that is in London."

Emily looks at the most familiar face she's got in her life. Katie is her constant, her other half. Not in the way that they are inseparable, or close even. They haven't latched onto one other like that since primary school, maybe before. Emily's passion for football from such an early age struck an automatic wedge between them. Between her and everyone else, really. Katie chose her own friends, her own college, her own existence outside of Emily's natural talents and the stringent routine that came with it. But when it came to leaving Wales, starting out someplace new and unfamiliar, there had barely been a discussion on whether or not they would leave as a unit. Even without the need to live similar lives or be similar people, Emily very much knew they were still tethered, and that it was a comfort neither twin knew how to live without.

When she finally makes the call, commits to joining the Arsenal club, commits to London and leaving her sister and Effy, Katie wants to open champagne. The three of them stand around the kitchen like gits, clinking teacups because the girls never invested in proper stemware. Katie is beaming. Effy smiles, but in her way that always means she's also reading into your most private thoughts. Emily smiles too and tries to convince herself that the apprehension and doubt constricting her chest has to do with leaving what's familiar. She tries so hard not to overthink London. She tries, and fails, to blink away the piercing blue.

Effy sleeps over, as she does habitually on nights that end in 'y,' and when Emily's eyelids flutter open in the morning sun, Effy is propped up next to her.

"It's weird when you watch me sleep, you know." Emily's voice is hoarse and barely scratches out.

"I thought it was supposed to be romantic."

"It's only romantic if we're in love, Eff." Emily turns towards her, bunches the pillow up under her head and curls her hands up under her chin.

"I could be in love with you," Effy says even though her eyes are already smiling as the words come out.

"Yeah, well, _obviously_."

"What about the blonde? Did she fall in love with you?"

Emily thinks for a minute about whether she ever mentioned the colour of Naomi's perfect, shiny hair then remembers it never fucking matters where Effy is concerned.

"She was so lovely," Emily says and really relishes how open she's always been able to be with Effy. Tries not to feel sad that in London there will be no Effy.

"Well why didn't you ever call her, you twat. Trying to play the cool, unaffected lesbian angle?"

"Trust me, I think it's better I didn't. She was mortified, I'm sure."

"Sure _how_?"

Emily knows Effy never trusts her intuitions. And she guesses, if she were Effy, she would never trust anyone else's intuitions either.

"Text," Emily answers.

"Let's see it then," Effy holds out her hand, leaves it hanging there above the mattress until Emily sighs and rolls over to grab her mobile off the nightstand.

Effy reads aloud when Emily hands it over.

1:33 Hoping this means you made it back safe?  
1:40 Getting breakfast with Cook. Next time?

Effy's face falls significantly and Emily immediately props up on one elbow.

"Eff? What? Is it bad? It's bad, isn't it? See, I told you."

"What's her name?"

"Naomi." Emily feels surges of heat and sweat in her palms when she says her name then remembers the look on her best friend's face. "Why? Do you know her?" Had Naomi mentioned Bristol? Emily suddenly couldn't remember. She cursed herself again for managing to black out a rather good portion of the night's end.

"No," Effy answers. But her eyes drop. "No," she says again, "not really. Not her, no."

"What do you mean 'not really?' Is she from Bristol?"

"Yeah. Well, no. I don't remember." Effy's brow is knitted like she is concentrating on something so hard it's painful. "She went to my college. Different forms."

"Oh." Emily doesn't need to know more. College for Effy means broken memories, dark blotches on her past that she can't see through but can't erase either. "Well, she was nice yeah? I mean, she seems nice?"

"Sure, yeah." Effy makes an attempt at smiling but it disappears just as quickly as she hands over Emily's mobile. "I didn't know her. I mean, we never spoke. But I'm sure she was nice enough." Effy slides from under the covers and reaches for her jeans, pulls a pack from the front pocket and says, "I need a fag."

"OK. I'll make tea," Emily says to her back as Effy leaves the room. She doesn't respond.

* * *

The next week of practice is more intense than Naomi can remember from any other year, and the unseasonably scorching heat for Britain just won't break. Naomi works hard, pushes herself until she threatens heat exhaustion and with every stride, every drill, every look of intensity and dedication, she sees Liv's look of suspect relax just a bit. It's the end of a late afternoon scrimmage on the last day before a one-day break when Coach Farley huddles them together. He manages to commend the girls for their hard work and criticize their lack of effort all in the same breath. He goes over some quick notes about their upcoming fixture in the FA WSL Continental Cup against Liverpool then says the thing that pushes all the air from Naomi's lungs.

"On Thursday when we get back to work, we'll be joined by a few new members of the squad." Reading from his clipboard, "Johnston, comes from Glasgow City. Middleton from Chelsea, and uh, from Bristol Academy we've got Fitch."

Naomi strains to swallow even though the moisture is gone and the back of her throat feels like sandpaper. They are dismissed and as Naomi jogs off the pitch, Liv falls into stride. Naomi doesn't meet her eye.

"Fitch ... isn't that?"

"Emily," Naomi says, keeping her eyes locked on the locker room tunnel.

"Right. Your mate Emily." Liv says mate like the word taste bitter in her mouth and slaps her hand on Naomi's upper thigh. "Be sure you play nice."

"Fuck off!" Naomi calls after her even as Liv rushes into the shaded tunnel well ahead of her.

Naomi spends the entire night pacing her flat, wearing ruts into the floorboards and holes in the heels of her socks. She eats salad. Attempts to read. Tries to sit on the sofa and watch tele. The men's club is playing Chelsea and it's a fair match, but Naomi keeps losing track of the football and finally clicks off the tele to sit in silence. She's deduced that Emily will probably arrive tomorrow if she's meant to show at practice the following day, and thinking of her return to the city, London has never felt so small. Naomi knows that practice is no suitable arena for clearing the air between them and decides tomorrow is her only option. She doesn't fuss about once her mind is set and reaches quickly for her mobile. She finds Emily's number and quickly types a text message without allowing herself to over think it because she's not the type of girl who kneads her hands over what to say or when to say it. But as she hits send, she has an afterthought to check the time. Nearly 1 a.m. Fucking hell. And it's too late for regrets.

* * *

Emily has been walking a straight line between her bed and dressing table, filling a second suitcase. She tried sleeping and when that failed she clicked on the small lamps about her room and went straight to packing. There isn't a rush to get to London. The club has already agreed to pay for hotel lodging for the next month until she can secure a flat, and the more time she has with Effy and Katie the longer she can put off the inevitable. When Emily makes the return trip to her bed with another armful of clothes, she sees the screen of her mobile lit. She grabs it mindlessly but feels the sweat gathering in the creases of her fingers when she sees a single letter N on the screen, having never dared to have Naomi's full name registered in her contacts. It doesn't make sense, but at the time, the singular letter N seemed like a safer choice.

12:44 So, London bound then?

Emily pulls her lips in between her teeth and feels the sides of her mouth curl upwards.

She responds: Heard the Gunners are in dire need of a competent midfielder.

She sits on the bed, folding her legs into a criss-cross the way they used to instruct you to sit in primary school during assemblies. She sets the phone on the bed beside her. Picks it up again. Then sets it back down and goes back to the business of packing when a chime rings and she snatches it up so quickly, she nearly drops it.

12:48 You talk a big game for someone so small

Emily smiles wider, runs a hand through her hair at the back of her head and contemplates a reply when another text comes through.

12:49 Are you busy tomorrow? Lunch?

She takes what feels like several minutes to appropriately respond, finally taking a page from the Effy handbook: Cool.

12:54 I'll send directions.

* * *

Emily doesn't feel confident navigating the city. Grew up seaside in a tiny town with narrow roads. She hasn't grown accustomed to public transportation and getting lost in the tube fucking scares her. So when Naomi sends directions from the hotel to the cafe that require planes, trains and automobiles, Emily allows for a moment of panic before pulling herself together. She leaves the hotel so ridiculously early that when she arrives, she looks at the time to see she's nearly 30 minutes early, but the cafe really is lovely so she grabs a seat at an outside table and orders tea. It's almost too warm to sit outside comfortably, but a striped awning hangs over the round tables, creating a bit of shade. When Naomi approaches, Emily isn't paying attention.

"Hey."

Emily jerks her head towards the sound of Naomi's voice and tries to maintain some level of cool even though the slope of Naomi's shirt, the way it's teasing to slip off her left shoulder, is making it difficult.

"Hi," is all she manages.

Naomi sits down across from her as she says, "You're assimilating well. London looks fit on you."

And Emily shifts nervously in her chair, avoiding eye contact.

"How long have you lived here?"

Naomi smiles, decides not to remind Emily they've already had this conversation. Doesn't let on that she's already googled the town in Wales where Emily spent her childhood.

"Just under five years. It's alright, I guess. Could be worse. Could be Bristol."

Emily recognises this first as a dig from the way Naomi smirks, and then remembers something.

"You lived in Bristol, yeah?"

"For a bit. My mum's still there. Fell in fucking love with it for whatever reason." The waitress comes and drops menus at the table.

"Right, a friend of mine I think went to college with you."

"Oh yeah? Who's that?"

"Effy Stonem?"

"Oh, Jesus! You know Effy Stonem?" Naomi says this like Effy could be a famous film star even though Emily knows it's more likely that Naomi knows the _infamous_ Effy Stonem. "How - how is she?" It's the way everyone always asks about Effy.

"She's fine." And then Emily corrects, "She's good."

They don't dwell on Effy, or Bristol, but it's a good starting point and before long Emily has forgotten her nerves or anxieties and, even without copious amounts of alcohol, loosens up to a very familiar banter with Naomi. She's funny and sarcastic and full of stories about Arsenal football, of London life or her crazy mum. And Emily thinks, as the wait staff clears their plates, that she couldn't have picked a better way to spend her first day in the city. It's when the bill is dropped onto the table that Emily remembers why Naomi makes her feel nervous and adolescent. They both reach for the bill and when Naomi's hand folds on top of Emily's fingers, they look up.

"I've got it," Naomi says.

"No, it's not necessary. I want to. Please," Emily thinks she sounds a bit too desperate, but in order to get through what she came to do, she's got to pick up the cheque.

"Don't be stupid!" Naomi argues. "It's your first day here. Think of it as your welcome lunch. I honestly can't let you pay. It's bad hospitality." Naomi smiles and her face is so lit up and determined that Emily almost forgets to fight for the bill.

"No, I can't let you!" She finally says a bit too strongly and pulls until the cheque nearly tears from Naomi's grip. When a look of strange concern shadows Naomi's face, Emily continues, speaking more rapidly than she had planned in her head. "The thing is, I feel terrible ... about that night." And her eyes are to the pavement. She licks her lips before she can continue. "I mean, it was great - the party was great - and I had loads of fun."

Emily pauses and Naomi feels like her vision is blurring. She tries to concentrate on what Emily is saying but all she hears in her tone is nervous regret, and yet hearing her rehash the events of that night is making it hard to look anywhere but her lips.

"Emily, look," she tries to interject. "You were pissed and I should have -"

"I think I kissed you," Emily blurts out. "And I'm sorry."

The laugh that erupts comes from somewhere in Naomi's throat and she actually claps her hand over her mouth before clearing her throat and biting her lower lip. Emily's face is shaken and perplexed her eyes asking all the whats and whys that she isn't voicing.

"Emily, you didn't kiss me."

"What? I didn't?" And suddenly Emily feels empty as all the slivers of that distant memory are pulled out of her with Naomi's words.

"No, you didn't." The waitress shows up again and Emily is motionless as Naomi takes money from her pocket, grabs the cheque from Emily's hand and gives both to the girl. "We're all set, thank you." Naomi smiles when she looks back at Emily. "I kissed you."

The look of shock still hasn't fallen from Emily's face as Naomi stands from the table and smiles down at her. "Come on, Bristol. Let's take a walk."


	3. Chapter 3: The Beautiful Game

**Author's Note:** Sorry for such a long lapse. I've been at my Grams' house with no internet connection, which is so traumatizing I can't really talk about it yet. Hope everyone finds this chapter worth the wait.

** Skins isn't mine, but I love it like a firstborn child.

* * *

After a solid 7 days of practice with her new squad, it becomes apparent to Emily just why Arsenal always appears unbeatable. The intensity of the coaching staff's demands is rivaled only by the intensity of her teammates, and Naomi, she quickly learns, is ablaze at the forefront. The girl with an infectious laugh and easy demeanor who'd taken her to lunch just a week prior was nowhere to be found on the pitch. Naomi's eyes would steel over, her jaw fixed and muscles tensed like armies wouldn't stand a chance against her and the football. Emily finds she starts to crave this energy and feeds off it the way the other girls have. Naomi is the first one on the pitch and the last one off, and Emily notices this mostly because she has a hard time keeping her eyes off the blonde. It would be a bit of a problem if she didn't also feel it reciprocated just as frequently.

It often happens in the locker room and Emily can't help but smile to herself that Naomi thinks she's perving so stealthily. In response, Emily begins taking her time in removing her kit, wrapping a towel just under her armpits and sauntering to the showers. Meanwhile, Naomi, huddled against the lockers with Liv, pretends not to notice. After two weeks of this kind of teenage nonsense, Emily is leaned back into her plush seat of the Arsenal coach, thumbing a text message. They'd just played an away match against Chelsea and the rowdy and aggressive fans within the stadium had made the victory just that much sweeter. Emily hadn't gotten more than a few minutes of play near the end of the match, still proving herself to her coaches on the practice pitch. Plus, competing for a spot midfield against Naomi Campbell was no easy feat.

When Emily hits send, she looks up, smirking down the aisle. It's nearly 11 and the bus is dark, but the tiny yellowed lights lining the aisleway just barely illuminate Naomi's profile as she notices the blinking on her mobile screen. Naomi and Emily get on well, that much had been apparent even after just one night at the hotel party, and again confirmed in the light of day as they'd spent an afternoon trolling the city after lunch on Emily's first day. But when it came to the team, Emily quickly learned that very little came between Naomi and her mate Liv. On the pitch, they were a powerhouse with which to be reckoned, but even football aside, Emily sensed a bond she guessed had rarely if ever been challenged.

Emily waits for Naomi's reaction as she reads the text.

10: 47 I've noticed something I'd like to report, but I'm not sure the protocol.

Emily watches Naomi click away against the touchscreen. Her reply is nothing more than: ?

So Emily responds and again waits for Naomi.

10: 48 Ya, it's a bit awkward, really. Been noticing someone perving on me in the lockers …

She can see just the hint of a smile pull on Naomi's lips before the blonde's head turns trying to seek her out in the dark. When Naomi's eyes lock onto hers, Emily is already wearing the kind of flirtatious smirk that usually ensures she's about to pull. Naomi smiles at her, but her attention is quickly pulled in the other direction as Emily spots another hand reaching for Naomi's mobile.

"Stop flirting, you slag," Liv says just above a whisper as she attempts to grab the phone from Naomi's grasp.

"Fuck off – I'm not flirting!" Naomi whispers back.

"Sure you aren't." Liv rolls her eyes before closing them, resting her head back against the seat.

When she's confident Liv has lost interest, Naomi starts to type a reply.

11:01 Pretty serious accusation, Emily. Maybe u should try working things out with the girl first?

Something tingles in her knickers as Emily imagines Naomi's soft voice saying her name. It isn't often she doesn't call her 'Bristol' and so something about the idea of Naomi using her first name feels intimate and completely fucking sexy. Long before Emily made the trip to London, she knew Naomi had most likely ruined her. And even if in all her determination to conquer the football world, Naomi never fully reciprocated her advances, Emily figured at the very least she could have some fun with her. Which is exactly what she intends to do when she replies:

_You'd like that, wouldn't you?_

* * *

When the airbrakes of the coach pop and hiss, signifying their return to Emirates Stadium, Emily rouses from her light sleep and pulls her duffel from the floor between her feet. It's a short walk to the tube, but Emily knows she can walk straight to her hotel in under thirty minutes so even at the late hour she decides to go on foot. She slings a long strap from her bag over her shoulder, says a few goodbyes then heads off, bathed in the bright street lamps outside the stadium.

"Headed in the opposite direction of the tube, Bristol." The voice behind her comes just as she stops at a pedestrian walk, waiting for traffic to clear. Naomi is smiling when Emily turns to face her. "Still getting turned around, are we?"

"Decided to walk back, actually. Wasn't aware I was being clocked."

"Walking the streets of big, scary London all alone at night? Sounds awful daring for someone of your … stature." Naomi finishes her insult by tapping the palm of her hand on the top of Emily's head.

Emily swats away Naomi's gesture, narrowing her eyes at the blonde who apparently finds herself quite hilarious.

"Your fascination with my height – it's a little bit weird, you know."

"What? You're tiny!" Naomi gestures with both hands in front of Emily as if to make more of a point. "It's … cute." Naomi shrugs, realising she's probably said too much, but when she attempts to avert her eyes, she sees something in Emily's expression daring her to look away.

"Yeah, well, it's going to fucking _adorable_ when I take your place on the pitch then, isn't it?"

Emily looks up to see the lights have changed and without giving Naomi the time to respond, starts off across the street. A few paces from the other side, Naomi catches up to her and the two fall into stride along the quiet, empty streets.

"So, are you planning on walking me clear back to the hotel?"

Naomi scoffs, "I happen to live up this way, for your information. But since you brought it up, any plans to give up your glamorous hotel lifestyle and settle in like the rest of us commoners?"

"I have actually found a flat. Signing the paperwork tomorrow."

"Sure it's not a shit neighborhood? You should have asked me – I'd have, you know, helped."

"Oh, well, I still have to remind myself that you're the resident expert on _everything_," Emily exaggerates, though her mouth quirks upward in a crooked smile. "Besides, my best friend lived in London for years. She made sure I wasn't signing onto live in a drug den."

After a bit, Naomi slows her pace and when Emily doesn't seem to notice, she finally says, "My flat is just down here," hitching her thumb towards the street behind her. When Emily's expression changes to something between shock and interest, Naomi quickly adds, "I just mean I'm off this way. You know, this is my stop and all."

"Right, well, see you." Emily offers a small smile and a wave. She turns to head up the street even though Naomi lingers, watching the smaller girl walk away.

"Hey, Bristol," she finally calls out when Emily is about ten paces off. "If you need help with, you know, hauling boxes or whatever –"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

After practice the following day, Naomi jumps up onto one of the wooden benches in the busy locker room.

"Oi!" She shouts, banging her fist noisily against the metal door of her locker. The room falls silent within seconds as Emily suspects this might be somewhat of a routine way of calling their attention. "Listen up, lads! Half-pint from Bristol over here needs some brawn on Friday as she becomes an official resident of London, giving up her posh hotel accommodations and all." Naomi cuts her eyes for the briefest of moments to Emily who's cheeks are the color of crimson, causing Naomi to contort her mouth and suppress a smile. A few of the girl applaud Naomi's statement, not helping to ease Emily's embarrassment. "Bristol'll give you the details on when and where to show up, and I'll be the one handing out shots and bottles of lager once we're through, alright?"

With that, Naomi is off her makeshift podium and back on to task, pulling clothing from her locker. With a crowd of her teammates circling her, Emily sneaks a look back to Naomi to catch a pleased grin on her face and a sparkle in her blue eyes. "Thanks a lot," Emily mouths to her, rather disingenuously. It's one of only two off days for a long stretch and Emily knows it's a big ask, but something tells her that when Naomi makes a demand, it's rarely denied.

* * *

Effy and Katie bicker like an old, married couple on the other end of the line, bringing a smile to Emily's lips as she rides the train back to Bristol. The two girls had been working for the past three days to load Emily's things into the truck she'd leased to make the move, and by the sounds of Katie's squawking it hadn't been a smooth operation.

"Katie, relax. I'm sure it's fine, and thank you," Emily finally interjects. "Look, I'll be at the station at half-past. Just don't forget to pick me up, alright?"

"I'm not going to forget to pick you up, fuck's sake, Em. And I still don't like the idea of you driving this huge fucking thing all the way back to London by yourself. Effy and I could come with you, you know."

"What – so I can listen to the two of you snapping at each other for two hours straight? I'll pass, thanks."

"And who the fuck do you plan on bribing to haul all this hit up a three-story walk-up?" Katie challenges.

Before Emily has time to respond, another voice is on the line.

"Is Naomi going to be your knight in platinum blonde armour, lugging all the heavy boxes for her damsel in distress?"

"Not insinuating _I'm_ the damsel, are you, Eff?"

"She is, isn't she? Helping you move into your flat? You fucking muff-grabbers and your fast-tracked romancing."

Emily breathes a loud sigh. "You've really been spending too much time with my sister. The whole squad is helping, so yeah, she'll be there."

"Oh, that's sweet," Effy's tone is thick like syrup as Emily runs an exasperated hand through her red hair.

"If I didn't love you so much, I would really fucking hate you."

Emily couldn't have been annoyed with Effy if she'd tried. Looking out the window at the scenery zipping by, Emily smiles at the voices on the other end of the line. Not even a solid month into her new life and already her emotions seem to swell at the thought of seeing her sister and Effy again. The rest of the train ride, Emily sits quietly flipping through an Arsenal playbook. She had been kidding, for the most part, with Naomi about replacing her position in the starting line-up. It was far too enjoyable getting a rise out of her. But the truth is, Emily was always aiming for more caps. More time spent on the pitch means more recognition, more time to hone her skills. And Naomi Campbell wasn't the only one trying to fulfill a lifelong dream.

* * *

The morning of the move, the rain is pissing down and suddenly the heat and sunshine are distant memories replaced by typical, dreary British weather. A wave of guilt starts to weigh on Emily's shoulders as she pulls the large moving truck along the front gate of her new building. A large handful of her new teammates had promised to show up today and now they'll be hoisting boxes over their heads in the pissing rain. Not surprisingly, Emily squints through the raindrops spotting the windshield to see Naomi is already waiting near the front steps. When Emily hops down onto the pavement and steadies herself against the door of the truck, she flips the hood of her jacket over her head and looks up to see Naomi wearing a smirk and holding two coffees.

"If you're about to say something derogatory about my height, you can save it."

"No, I wasn't," Naomi answers, feigning innocence. "It's just – I didn't realize they'd lease a truck to a sixteen-year-old." Naomi flinches as Emily's fist lands on her upper arm. "Oi! Are you always so violent to people who bring you coffee and free manual labour?"

"No, but your insults seem to inspire a violent streak in me. Thanks," Emily takes one of the cups Naomi holds out to her, "for the coffee. And all the help."

"Well, I tried to tell you – I'm very hospitable."

The girls grin stupidly at one another for a minute until a loud voice bellows from down the street.

"Fuckin hell, Bristol! Couldn't have done something about the weather?" Liv is squinting upwards, holding a hand just above her eyes and followed by three other Gunners.

"Yeah – sorry about that," Emily starts to apologize as if the weather stops and starts at her whim, but Naomi cuts in because she's probably the only person who knows how to speak to Liv properly.

"You're fucking delicate now, are you? Let's get a move on then. The sooner we're finished, the sooner we drink."

Liv pulls a middle finger directed at Naomi but without another word they are heading towards the rear of the truck. Unloading goes rather quickly, faster than Emily had anticipated, and for that she's grateful since the rain won't seem to let up. Within the span of a few hours, the once empty flat was now cluttered full of boxes, random furniture and half-cocked footballers, their voices echoing off the bare walls. Emily feels herself starting to relax with the lager and good conversation, but the pointed looks Liv keeps giving Naomi don't go unnoticed and Emily can't help but feel there is an unspoken conversation always happening between them.

"Another?" Naomi lightly elbows Emily in the ribs from where they are sat on a small bench in front of the fireplace.

"Sure." Emily hands her empty bottle to Naomi as she stands and heads into the kitchen. With a cautious eye, Emily watches as Liv follows.

When Naomi pops up from the fridge, two fresh drinks in her hand, Liv has propped herself against the counter opposite.

"Oh hey – want one?"

"I think we're going to head out. Let's go get dinner, yeah?"

One look at Naomi's face and the apprehension is all too apparent to her best mate. Shaking her head, Liv ticks her tongue.

"What?" Naomi's eyes widen, her tone incredulous.

"You're fuckin' fucking with fire and you _know_ it."

"I'm _not_!" Naomi's argument probably would have been more believable had she been able to stop the corners of her mouth from tugging upwards.

Liv pushes herself off the edge of the counter and approaches Naomi so that the only the fridge door stands between them.

"You're full of shit, you know. Just keep it in your pants, yeah?"

"You know I _am_ capable of hanging around fit women without tearing my clothes off and shagging their brains out."

"Yeah, well, history begs to differ, mate." Liv's right hand reaches up and pats gingerly against Naomi's cheek before she turns and leaves the kitchen.

The girls gradually shift towards the door as Emily reiterates her appreciation for their help. When the flat is empty, an uneasy silence falls between Emily and her last, lingering houseguest.

"So, you didn't have to stay, you know," Emily offers, still shuffling near the front door. Being the first day in her new flat she has yet to feel any ownership and instead feels like her and Naomi are just boxed into some unfamiliar space.

"Sick of me, are you?"

"Well, I didn't want to be rude but since you're so perceptive."

And it's always like this between them, it seems. This balancing act of stifling sexual tension and quick wit banter. One always outweighing the other, and back again. It's dangerous letting flirtatious banter fly between Emily and herself, which is maybe why Naomi's stomach flips when it happens. A rush of excitement and trepidation when she knows she shouldn't engage but does. Naomi finds she is particularly aware of just how much space is between them, just how flushed Emily's cheeks are from lifting boxes or chugging beer, just how alone they actually are at the moment.

"I could actually use your help with something."

The sound of Emily's voice pulls Naomi back from wherever her filthy mind had attempted to drag her and she stands, making careful not to let her eyes drift downwards to Emily's tits in her low-cut vest. They enter a smaller room off the sitting room, empty of mostly anything other than a mattress leant up against one wall and loose pieces of stained wood scattered about. Naomi quickly deduces the task at hand.

"Bed frame then?" she motions towards the deep stained cherry wood. Tries miserably not to associate the words 'bed' and 'Emily' too closely.

An hour later, Naomi's legs are splayed out on the bedroom floor, a wrench in one hand and piles of nuts and bolts on the floor around her.

"I think we're going to have leftover parts," she admits, a bit more drunk and a bit less focused on precision.

"That's not really an option," Emily laughs, feeling a little shaky with her own equilibrium as she stands, peering over at her confused, blonde counterpart.

"Alright well, get down here and help me figure out where this cunting bolt fits then."

Emily walks from one side of the bedframe to the other, finally squatting on her haunches next to Naomi, rests her elbows on her knees and tries to assess the piles at her feet. "What seems to be the issue?"

Naomi's attention no longer on the bolts or the bedframe, she lets her eyes move slowly down Emily's legs – thighs then calves. No question she's got the physique of an athlete, her legs trim but muscular. She's seen Emily in shorts plenty of times during practice though this being the first time she's gotten to see Emily like this. Up close. Too close, she thinks, though makes no attempt to put any more space between them. Emily turns her head when Naomi doesn't respond and when Naomi meets her eyes, the smug look on Emily's face tells her she's been caught.

"Right, it's uh, these two. Can't fucking make sense of them."

Emily keeps her eyes on Naomi for another second or two, watching her squirm a bit and the pigment in her neck and face change colour. She's known only a direct and confident Naomi, some girl who laughs out loud in public places because she's self-assured ans unaffected by loads of attention. So when Emily notices the effect she's capable of having on this girl, her attraction nearly doubles with intensity.

"I need a drink," Naomi finally manages to say, creating any excuse to leave the room and as she enters the small kitchen and exhales, she can feel the tension dissipate around her.

* * *

Once both girls are satisfied with their handiwork, they hoist the mattress from its place against the wall over to the empty frame. Emily stands at the foot of the bed, quite pleased with the outcome. Naomi joins her, crossing her arms along her stomach and smiles from Emily over to the completed bed and back.

"Test it out?" she suggests, mischievously raising her brow. "Count of three."

"Three!" Emily squeals as both girls jump and with all the force they can manage, bounce down onto the end of the mattress.

In the same moment, Naomi yells, Emily screams and the foot of the mattress comes slamming down until it's resting on the floor of the bedroom. The girls look over at each other incredulously before exploding into laughter that can't be reeled in for the better of ten minutes.

"Fucking hell – how am I supposed to sleep like this?" Emily finally manages, wiping stray tears from her eyes. The mattress now slopes from headrest to foot at a significant incline.

"Pretend your camping on the side of a mountain?" Naomi offers, straining to control her laughter from erupting again. She pulls herself from the bed and stands defiantly in front of the small redhead still pouting on the bare mattress. "We'll fix it. Come on then." She holds her hand out to Emily, waiting to pull her up. She tugs a bit too firmly once Emily has taken her hand, essentially causing the smaller girl to crash into her had Emily not instinctively reached out her hand, it landing comfortably against Naomi's side. "Sorry," Naomi laughs nervously, looking down at deep pools of dark brown.

"S'ok," Emily smiles, still conscious of the heat radiating between her left hand and Naomi's skin through the thin cotton of her tee shirt. "It's late." Emily calculates the distance between her mouth and the bottom lip that Naomi keeps nervously biting, wets her own lips with a quick dab of her tongue and hears Naomi's breath catch.

"This is a bad idea," Naomi finally manages to choke out though her tone is shaky and uncertain.

"You sure about that?" Emily challenges, sounding a bit more bold than she feels.

"No, but I'm a bit too pissed, and you're a bit too … gorgeous for me to make proper judgment." Naomi looks away as she struggles to say _gorgeous_ but doesn't try to move maybe hoping Emily will make a decision for the both of them. And so, she does.

"Alright then."

Naomi's eyes dart back towards Emily only to find she's moved away a bit, her hand slowly losing contact with Naomi's side and the surface area immediately feels cool in its vacancy. She absently crosses her left arm across her stomach, places her own hand there as if to mimic the touch.

"Alright what?"

"I'll wait until you're feeling less intoxicated or, you know, finding me less irresistible," she finishes with a cheeky smirk.

"I can't imagine that will be anytime soon." And now words are just pouring out of her subconscious and into real conversation with Naomi unable to stop herself. As if she's never stood in front of a pretty girl. As if she's never before felt the surge of adrenaline that fills the seconds just before a first kiss.

"You plan on being drunk a lot going forward?"

"That's not what I –"

Emily laughs at Naomi's drunken sincerity. "Yeah, I know what you meant." And then her hand is slipping into Naomi's as she steps backwards towards the bedroom doorway, pulling the tall blonde with her. "Come on, I'll call you a taxi, yeah?"

The dispatch on the line tells Emily the wait for a taxi will be at least 45 minutes so Naomi instantly starts to argue her ability to walk home. The girls have moved back into the sitting room and the air feels breathable again, the tension having been shrugged off with new surroundings and fresh bottles of lager.

"For the last time, fucking forget it. We'll wait for it. I'm not sending you off by yourself to roam the streets of London right pissed." Emily holds two frosted bottles between her fingers, twists off one cap and then the other and hands one to Naomi.

The girls are sat on Emily's modest-sized sofa when Naomi finally concedes to stay and wait for the cab.

"Fine. But can't you put something on the tele? It's too fucking quiet."

"I haven't really got anything to watch."

"That's just something people say when they're too embarrassed by their DVD collection."

"That's the dumbest theory I've ever heard," Emily laughs, but her smiles fades a bit when she notices Naomi's eyes darting about the room and realises she's in search for a box labeled DVDs.

"Ah-ha!" Naomi stands triumphantly once she's spotted the appropriate box and Emily knows it's futile to try and stop her.

Naomi teasingly starts to list out each title as she rifles through the stacks of videos, blushes when her fingers graze a few of the adult variety which Emily notices and enjoys thoroughly, then finally produces a box set with an amused look.

"What?" Emily questions defensively. "I like Mr. Bean!"

"Yeah so does my gran for fuck's sake. He's a right git and I'm literally embarrassed _for_ you."

"You're a right git and I think he's hilarious. Effy and I," Emily looks down, starts pulling at the label of her bottle now covered in condensation, "well, when she wasn't feeling well, we'd pop in the box set and stay up till dawn watching them."

Naomi sighs, her heartstrings significantly tugged when Emily's voice goes soft over the memory with her best mate. "Mr. fucking Bean it is then."

At some point, Naomi falls asleep and as she relaxes, her long legs stretch down the length of the couch until they are resting at an awkward angle, her feet not quite touching Emily. Sleepily, Emily pulls Naomi's legs at the ankles until her legs are draped across her lap, Emily's hands folded on top. She looks across the small space between them at the sleeping blonde and enjoys, for just a few minutes, watching her chest rise and fall with deep, relaxed breaths. Emily's own heavy eyelids finally drop as her head falls against the back of the sofa and when her mobile buzzes quietly, alerting them to the cab parked outside, neither girl notices.


	4. Chapter 4: Blind Side

**Author's Note:** Quick note about this chapter - it sort of skips around a bit, time wise. There's a good chance I'll keep playing with this kind of timeline because I'm enjoying seeing bits and pieces of Naomi & Emily's burgeoning friendship without it being so lateral. So, hope you can keep up! Trying to keep updates more regular but thanks so much for all the reviews in the meantime.

** I own a pug, I don't own Skins.

* * *

Three months into London life and Emily's routine feels solid. Feels as natural to her as breathing. Her flat sits on Upper Street in a bustling section of Islington. After just one afternoon in the borough, she'd known it was meant to be her new home. A day later she signed papers to let the flat. She doesn't get overwhelmed with city transit anymore though, to be fair, she tends to avoid it in favour of walking. It's easier to discover things this way, in a slowed pace. So she finds bakeries and book shops. Spends her off-hours on the weekends at Camden Passage, browsing antiques and finding trinkets for the bare spaces in her flat. She walks the towpath along Regent's Canal when she misses the waterways of Bristol. When she misses Katie or Effy. When she misses familiarity.

Of course, there's also new familiars. There's also Naomi.

It sort of happens by accident when they meet up that first morning for a run. Back before Emily feels like she's slipped comfortably into Islington like an old jumper. Back when she still feels a bit more like a house guest who doesn't know where the cutlery is kept. Emily is working earbuds into her ears and tucking the key to her flat into the armband holding her iPod so she's distracted as she crosses the threshold. Which is why she doesn't see Naomi and nearly knocks her down the stairwell.

"Oh!"

"Sorry."

"Hi."

"Hi."

It's every bit as awkward as it should be having just accidentally spent the night with a girl you hardly know, who also happens to be your squad mate. Who also happens to occupy your thoughts several times throughout the day, occasionally unclothed.

"I was just going for a run." Emily pulls on two white cords until her earbuds pop from her ears.

"You don't say," Naomi says with a slight nod and the sort of smirk that makes Emily feel both embarrassed and aroused all at once.

She looks down as if sizing herself up and obviously the dark nylon shorts, grey sports bra and trainers are a dead giveaway. So she rocks back on her heels and places a nervous hand on her hip, but when she looks back up it's clear that Naomi hasn't yet finished assessing her outfit, her eyes lingering somewhere along Emily's bared stomach.

"So … you came by." It doesn't make sense to keep stating the obvious but Emily can't stop herself from making it happen.

"Yeah, well, I just wanted to say thanks." Emily's eyes are quizzical even though she's smiling so Naomi clarifies, "For letting me crash." And then clears her throat. For emphasis.

"Oh, don't be stupid. It was nothing," Emily shakes her head. "And besides, I'm the one who should be thanking you for all the help."

Naomi shrugs, "Yeah you do kind of owe me."

This turns Emily's perfect morning smile into an actual laugh, and the look it produces on Naomi's face is such that the only thing Emily can think to say next is, "You should come with me."

* * *

The first time Emily sees Naomi's flat is rather uneventful except for the position in which she finds Naomi upon entering.

"It's open!" Emily hears Naomi call out so she pushes through the front door and steps into the flat.

The door opens into a large sitting room that dwarfs her own in comparison. The first thing she notices is the lack of clutter. The surfaces are absolutely stark, leaving the space feeling angular and polished. Sharp lines are everywhere. The built-in shelving houses books but just enough to keep them from looking unused. A large wooden chest sits in front of the sofa, coasters placed neatly in one corner and the television remote aligned in the corner opposite. Even the arrangement of hydrangeas on the fireplace mantle looks too perfect, too forced. Hardly a place you'd expect to find someone living in, the layout looks more like a spread from an architectural mag.

And yet, there she is. Emily scans the room until her chest tightens at the sight of Naomi, curled in a reading chair in front of a large window. The sun bursting into the room filters through the blonde curls around her face and that's when Emily notices she's wearing specs. They're dark plastic, vintage frames and she's hunched over a paperback with a concentrated scowl.

Emily realises she's been standing there dumbly for several seconds and finally forces out the word, "Hey," which is better than her original thought of asking to see the bedroom.

"_Jesus_ – you're fucking quiet!" Naomi nearly drops her book to the floor and grabs at her chest as she finally looks up at Emily.

Naomi in glasses, facing her head on, is causing irregularities in Emily's breathing patterns so she plays it cool by resting her hands on the back of the sofa.

"Your place," Emily looks around the room again, seeking some relief from the sight of Naomi in that bloody reading chair, "it's really nice."

"It's not much, but I like it." Naomi is unfolding her legs from beneath her and, thank Christ, the specs are coming off and being placed atop her paperback on the window sill. "Ready?"

* * *

Despite multiple protests, Emily is dragging Naomi to Camden Passage but only because Emily has finally agreed to try the Brazilian buffet that has become Naomi's occasional guilty pleasure. The morning run all those weeks ago had somehow turned habitual so that Naomi was always turning up at Emily's front gate at some time between 6:30 and 7:00, stretching her limbs along the iron rungs. This then morphs into other activities on other days at other times until it becomes quite apparent that somewhat of a fast friendship has formed.

* * *

"So what are you doing with her exactly?" Liv says one afternoon. She's squinting into the sun at an outdoor café and popping edamame into her mouth.

"Who – Bristol?"

"Yes, _Emily_," Liv clarifies with a cocked smile.

Naomi shrugs, adjusts her wayfarers and looks across the street where a man is latching his bicycle to a lamppost. "I like her."

"You like her," Liv echoes.

"Yeah." She turns back to her friend and grabs three green, salted pods from the bowl between them, squeezing one between her teeth until a soybean pops into her mouth. "Question is, why don't _you_ like her?"

"Me? I do! Nothing wrong with Bristol – she's great."

"What's the issue then?"

Liv pauses to consider Naomi for a moment, taps a chopstick against the metal table. "You're very … passionate, you know?"

Although Liv won't know any better, Naomi rolls her eyes behind the tint of her wayfarers and sighs, "I've been told. What's that got to do with anything?"

"When you're on the pitch – I mean when we're mid-match and you're just in there, ya know? In the fucking zone or whatever," Liv leans back into her chair and throws her hands up. "I've never seen anything like it. Your passion, it's why you play like you do. It's why we _win_ like we do."

"Hanging out with Emily's got nothing to do with my dedication to football. I mean, nothing rivals how I feel about that game. It's my whole life. You know that."

"Yeah, until you shag her."

The retort Naomi had ready gets caught somewhere near the back of her throat and the noise she makes isn't anything more than strangled air.

"Don't bother trying to argue that one, mate. Doesn't take a genius to work it out. You'll shag her and it'll be major," she says with a dramatic eye roll, "and my only worry is that you haven't considered what kind of effect it'll take on you. On your game. On _her_, for chrissake."

"_Jesus_, Liv," Naomi is laughing now, "didn't know you thought of my sexual prowess as apocalyptic."

"Oh, don't fucking flatter yourself." She tosses a soybean across the table and it bounces off Naomi's collarbone. "But the sexual tension between you and that little gingersnap could power a fucking Olympic stadium."

* * *

The second time Naomi is in Emily's flat, it's not full of boxes and scattered furniture. It's a small space, but it's bright and open and settled. Three giant, floor-to-ceiling windows angle at the front of the sitting room, facing the street below. The furniture is sparse, something Naomi can appreciate in a living space, but the other surfaces are covered in eclectic gatherings. Emily is in the kitchen, leant over the small butcher block island she brought in from a previous life, and Naomi likes the way hair looks against the backdrop of blue and orange kitchen backsplash tile. The kitchen isn't modern but sort of a funky vintage décor that suits Emily, she thinks. A bookshelf made from reclaimed wooden milk cartons is filled with loads of old hardbacks, two typewriters and an ancient-looking camera.

"You spend too much time at Camden Passage," she says to Emily as her fingers glide lazily over the book bindings.

"Fuck off, it's relaxing. And I like old stuff." Emily is chopping fruit then scooping it by handfuls into a blender on the counter behind her. "You're going to come with me one of these days."

"That's not likely."

* * *

When they've returned to Emily's flat from antiquing it's nearly 6:00, the sun casting a yellowed light into the sitting room so that everything looks like an old photograph. Naomi sets bags of take-away from the Brazilian restaurant on the kitchen counter and Emily plops down in front of her windows to examine her findings. Naomi pulls two wine glasses from a dish drainer beside the sink and pops the cork noisily from a bottle of red. When she approaches Emily near the windows and holds out a glass to her, her attention is more on the skyline rather than whatever Emily is tinkering with on the floor. The sun's about to set, the sky changing rapidly to colours you never tire of seeing, and Naomi decides it would be criminal not to take part.

"Let's sit outside, yeah?"

"Shit! What time is it?" Emily suddenly abandons whatever it is she's wasted her money on this time and tries to crane her neck towards the clock in the kitchen.

"Almost half-past."

Emily bolts up from the floor, nearly bowling down Naomi as she rushes into the bedroom and retrieves a camera.

"What's that for?"

"Records moments in time on a sheer paper-like substance called film." Emily throws a cheeky smile over her shoulder and unlatches the glass door to the terrace.

"Well, what do you plan to do with it, smartass?"

Emily steps up on the sill, about a foot off the ground, and onto the terrace. Naomi follows suit, bringing Emily's wine glass with her, and swings the door shut behind her with her foot. A tripod is leant up against the wall outside and Emily is positioning it along two dark pieces of tape on the stone floor just in front of an old, stone bench. It reminds Naomi of her mum's house and the little back garden where she first kissed Annabelle Chordstreet, and for a minute, she forgets to pay attention to what Emily is doing. With the camera now fastened to the tripod and adjusted to Emily's liking, she stands back and takes her wine glass back from Naomi, enjoying a long sip. Naomi looks about expectantly then finally back to Emily who is still just smiling stupidly, enjoying the chill in the air.

"Do you mind telling me exactly what the fuck we're doing?"

Emily doesn't answer, not verbally anyway. Instead she holds one finger first to her lips then taps twice to her ear. So Naomi sighs, pulls her lips between her teeth impatiently, and listens. Within seconds they can hear the sound of church bells echoing in the distance, and then Emily is moving again towards the camera. With a quiet click of the shutter, the moment is over.

"What did you just photograph?"

"I don't know."

It's something Emily does quite often: responding without really answering. It's infuriating a bit, and yet, it spurs conversation and Naomi thinks that maybe that's the whole point. There is every bit as much push and pull between them as before, but it's become something comfortable. Something they both seem to navigate without ever stopping to question it. The tension is still there, but it's contained now within the walls of friendship, and Naomi thinks that it feels safer within those confines. Less combustible. More controlled.

As if on cue, Emily turns those dark brown eyes on her and says in a voice impossibly low and soft, "The air feels different, don't you think?"

There's loaded questions, and then there's Emily Fitch asking about atmospheric changes in the midst of a fucking sunset. Naomi recovers as best she can by reiterating her interest in the camera.

"It's something I saw in some stupid, American documentary-style film. A guy in New York owns a cigar shop. Goes outside and takes a picture in the same location at the same time every day. And, I don't know, something about being here, starting fresh. It just … seemed like something to do."

"So the pictures – what do you plan to do with them?"

Emily laughs at either the question or her answer, it's unclear, when she says, "I haven't the slightest idea."

"Can I see them?"

They sit close on the sofa, an over-sized photo album between them, half open on Naomi's lap, the other flap on Emily's. The photos are developed on black-and-white film, giving them an interesting quality that just wouldn't exist in colour. Nothing spectacular sticks out from page to page, but there is something fascinating about it. The irregularities in all the consistency. Naomi flips over another page and the scenery changes to something that is no longer scenery at all.

"Oh – uh," Naomi flusters to turn the page back but Emily seems unfased by the nude photos.

The images aren't Emily but a brunette with a thin, slight frame and familiar eyes. The photos are also far from crass or even personal. They are artistic. They are beautifully captured images of the human form. Naomi can't draw her eyes away from the page. "Emily, these are … " she doesn't finish the sentiment because her words seem inadequate. When she finally looks up, something has fallen across Emily's face that she can't quite decipher, but she just as quickly rights it and smiles.

"Thanks. Effy makes it easy."

Naomi wants to ask, because of the nature of the photos but also because she's wanted to ask since the very beginning, but bites her tongue instead. Luckily, Emily makes it easy for her.

"We didn't, you know. Or anything." Emily is reaching across the book now, turning another page. "It was for a multi-media project bringing awareness to self-mutilation in teenage girls." The following pages are filled with all different images, this time Effy's arms and legs, close-ups of her sad, vacant eyes. Still just as beautiful, though achingly and tragically so.

"You miss her."

"Loads," Emily sighs. "And Katie. Though, the fact that they have each other makes me feel a bit better most days."

"Katie's the twin," Naomi recites like she's checking off Emily facts from a list. Emily nods.

"Any other siblings?"

Emily shuffles a bit so Naomi scoots away, leans up against the arm rest and folds one leg under the other to face her.

"Uh, just one. James. He's the youngest."

"So, he still lives back in Wales with your mum and dad then?"

"Um, yeah, the rest of the family live back near Pembroke."

Naomi sits up a bit when Emily closes the picture album and gets off the couch to place it back on the shelf. The sky outside has been dark for hours and the wine is gone so when Emily lingers near the bookshelf on the far side of the room, Naomi leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"I'm gonna head out." She stands, and it's at this point that things always get confusing.

Neither can ever manage to make a move towards the other. Affection of any sort isn't really something they've conquered or even dared to try, so even though it seems appropriate at the farewell hour, nothing happens. They stand facing one another until Naomi heaves a rather exaggerated sigh and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"See you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow," Emily confirms with a quick, short nod.

As soon as Naomi steps outside of the front gate, a gust of wind hits her from the street and she buries her hands into her sides, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. The walk home is short, but it will be a brisk one tonight. The air, it feels different.

Once back inside her own flat, comforted by her own surroundings, Naomi exhales expecting it to feel like relief. But it isn't until she has crawled into bed, pulled the blankets up around her shoulders and settled into the thick mattress, that she notices something unsettled swirling in the pit of her stomach. It feels like foreign matter has crawled in and sits heavy at her core. So she starts to mull over the events of the day, methodically sorting out her emotions like a math equation.

She thinks about Emily's life, how it misaligns with her own despite their parallel structures, and wonders why. She thinks about Emily's quirky photography ritual, her artistic streak, the way she talks about early American literature as if she'd studied the arts at uni instead of playing amateur league football, as Naomi knows to be true. She sits up in bed, rests on her elbows and looks about the room. A soft light from street lamps pools in through two large windows. She looks to the desk at the far end of the room and scans its clean surface. It's the only item of furniture in the room besides the four-poster bed. Naomi falls back to her pillows but keeps her eyes on the ceiling. As she places two hands on her stomach, Naomi finally registers her feeling of unease as a hollowing sense of emptiness. Her eyes eventually close once she's evened out her breathing, trying to induce sleep. Before she slips off, she decides that the following day, she'll ring her mum. It's the most comforting thought she's had in months.


	5. Chapter 5: Take the Penalty

**Author's Note:** These two chapters just came rushing out in close succession but I can't promise the next one will be as quick so don't hate me. I had to bring Effy back - not just because I love her - but because do you know how fucking difficult it is writing Skins characters who don't light up spliffs and fags every other scene? Your reviews are brilliant and I love you all for taking the time to pipe in.

** I don't even own a proper automobile so clearly I don't own Skins either.

* * *

Emily works her hand through the sheets and blankets until her fingertips find her mobile buried somewhere beneath. She checks the time, convinced she's been lying restlessly in bed for hours, unwilling to give in to sleep. 11:15. Naomi couldn't have left more than two hours ago. So the reality then is that time is just moving really fucking slowly. It also means that, shamefully, for the past 2 hours she's been playing over and over the way her name had sounded as it fell softly from Naomi's lips. The screen on her mobile goes black again before she decides to make the call.

"I fucking hate London." It's not true, but it feels right when she says it.

"That's my line." Emily's chest aches at the sound of Effy's voice. "Past your mandated bedtime, isn't it?"

"Is Katie around?"

"Out with some prick from the club."

"Is he really a prick or are you just being critical?"

"If he's got a prick, chances are he is a prick." The logic, Emily concedes, is there. "Did you need her?"

"No, it's just …"

Effy doesn't respond because Effy doesn't ever prod or push. She waits. She puffs away, filling the silence with the sounds of her smoky exhales, until Emily is ready to finish her thought.

"She asked about mum."

Again the line stays silent and Emily know she shouldn't have assumed anything different. Effy will let her work things out in her own time. She's not one to pull for emotional outbursts from someone who isn't ready to express it.

"Well, I mean, it was less direct than that. But she wanted to know about Katie and James and I just felt … unprepared."

"You and Naomi – you've known each other for how long?"

"Few months, I guess," Emily says it casually as if she doesn't know it's been 3 months, 2 weeks and 4 days since their introduction on the pitch, since the hotel party. Since the last time she felt Naomi's lips against hers.

"And what do you know about her?"

"What do you mean?" Emily sighs rolling over onto her back and starts to twirl a strand of hair between her fingers.

"It's not a fucking complicated question, Emily. Just tell me what you know about her."

Emily sighs again, bites her bottom lip and applies enough pressure until she feels the blood pulsing there just under the skin. And then she does just what Effy asks of her. She tells her everything she knows about Naomi Campbell. She tells her about the year her dad surprised her with Arsenal season tickets and how it was the very next year that he left without word. She tells her about when Naomi was eleven and her mum couldn't pay rent so they spent 4 months in London hostels. She tells her this is why Naomi can still speak French, though it's a bit rubbish, because a backpacker named Louis shared a room with them and fancied her. The story she recounts of Naomi's first experience of stepping onto the pitch at Emirates is detailed and animated because listening to Naomi tell it had been electrifying and emotional. Even now, Emily knows she's not doing it justice. Effy remains silent throughout, the sounds of her even inhales and exhales just barely audible. When Emily is satisfied that she's exhausted every fact compiled about Naomi, she too falls silent.

"Is that all then?"

Emily knows that Effy is taking a piss and tries not to let the heat of embarrassment rise above her neckline. "Guess so."

"She's not trying to pry, Emily. The poor girl is just trying to weigh the balances. You're spending time together and she's trusting you with all these parts of herself so, you've got to give her a little something in return."

"You're sort of good at this psycho-analyzing stuff, you know."

"Yeah, well, spend enough time around psychotic people and you're likely to either go completely mad or pick up a few useful ways to deconstruct your friends."

The mood feels lighter for a second, but Emily knows that the truth of the matter is, "I can't talk about it yet, Eff. You know I can't."

"So give her something else. Something ... smaller." It sounds simple the way everything does when Effy says it.

"Doctor's orders?"

"Doctor's orders. That and sleep. You're going to look like shit tomorrow and that's no way to keep this girl interested in you."

* * *

The weather in Manchester is shit. Every girl on the pitch is soaked through, their kits dark and heavy with rainwater, and the greens are more of a mud hole. During a lull in play, Naomi squints up at the scoreboard, cold stings of raindrops pelting her face. Tie score. Seven minutes left of regulation. Seven minutes left to fire that ball into the back of the net. Seven minutes left to put this game away and leave the opponents panting on their own pitch in defeat. Naomi feels the adrenaline surge and shakes her head violently from side to side, sending a spray of water in every direction. Game fucking on.

She whips her head as the sound of the referee's whistle screeches from the touchline and the ball is inbounded to the capable feet of the team's newest pint-sized redhead. Naomi trots along the far left side of the pitch while Emily is spread wide, dribbling along the right. She's quick on her feet, dancing easily around her first two defenders, but when she senses a clearing on the pitch she's at top speed as she nears the faded white lines of the penalty box. She's primed for a play. Naomi readies herself for Emily to chip the ball towards the goal. She'll be there to rifle it in.

Number 11 charges like a freight train and the impact against Emily's body is such that her legs end up parallel to the ground before her head snaps back against the muddied pitch. Faintly, behind the thudding sounds of blood pumping in her ears, Naomi imagines it's the sound of the ref's whistle screeching again. Though it doesn't register because at full sprint all she can hear is the wind whipping past her ears. Number 11 is on the ground in an instant and the force with which Naomi's managed to thrust into the girl's chest and arms sends her to the ground as well. It's only when she feels a thick arm of muscle wrap around her waist, heaving her backwards, that Naomi is pulled from atop the other girl. Her mouth, however, cannot be stopped. She strings together profanity with the kind of creativity that would make her mother proud, and it's not until she sees the referee reaching for that fated yellow slip that she attempts to quiet her outburst.

Liv refuses to let loose of her hold until they've made it safely back to the touchline opposite and Naomi's been sat forcefully on the team's bench. Coach Farley slams his clipboard down beside her, but his rage is deterred by making rushed substitutions for the remainder of the match. Naomi's been pulled, Emily's been injured. Liv will have to go back into the game and hope to finish the job without her right-hand lad. Once Emily has been assessed by the team's medical staff, she sits at the end of the bench, a towel draped over her neck and shoulders. She doesn't make eye contact no matter how many times Naomi cuts her eyes in her direction.

The ride home is long and quiet, Naomi's exhaustion compounded by her actions that she knows cost the team the win. Liv doesn't speak either. She doesn't sleep, though Naomi wishes that were the cause for her silence. When the bus slows and the rest of the team starts to shift about in their seats, Liv finally turns to Naomi. There is something on her face that isn't anger, but Naomi swallows hard anyway, readying herself for whatever onslaught she knows she deserves. Liv stands, looks down at her and exhales. Suddenly Naomi feels very trapped against the giant window of the bus, and feels herself sinking into it as Liv leans towards her.

"Just fucking shag her already, yeah?"

* * *

The closed door to Coach Farley's office does little to contain what's going on inside. Every now and then Emily flinches when his voice raises to a particularly frightening decibel or at the sound of objects slamming against the wall, the desk, the door frame. Naomi never asked her to wait. She just, does. They hadn't, in fact, spoken since before the match. But for reasons she hasn't yet sorted, she left the main locker room after her shower and walked straight to the chairs outside the coach's office. Her muscles tighten a bit when Liv approaches, but her demeanor seems non-confrontational so when she plops down in the chair next to her, Emily relaxes again.

"You all right then?"

"Yeah, didn't knock anything loose up there so far as I can tell," Emily smiles patting the side of her head.

Liv considers her for a beat and then says, "You're a lot stronger than your size lets on, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

Her response makes Liv laugh the kind of laugh that catches you by surprise. "I like you, Bristol. You're alright. I guess I'm just saying … people's strengths aren't always as they appear at first glance, you know?"

Emily looks between Liv and the closed office door and knows they're no longer talking about her injury.

Naomi doesn't question it when she finds Emily waiting for her. She doesn't say anything as she packs up her things. Doesn't say anything as they leave the stadium and turn down Drayton Park towards Highbury Corner. When Emily's mind has completely drifted off in the silence of Naomi's company, she finally speaks.

"I'm out for one game."

Emily's face is incredulous as she turns to look up at Naomi, who keeps her eyes locked forward. "That was really fucking stupid, Naomi."

She expects an argument, or at the very least a string of excuses for her behavior but instead Naomi says quietly, "I know."

"What were you thinking?" Emily's tone softens when she realises Naomi's not up for defending herself.

Her shoulders heave, "I wasn't."

There isn't a single cohesive thought to be found inside Emily's head when the implications of the admission settle over them. So she says nothing at all. Naomi had reacted - without thought of cause and effect, without concern for the game, without considering the consequence - out of protectiveness of Emily. She hadn't been thinking about anything, except her. She knows that Naomi already hates herself because of this. But Emily knows there's a good chance she might also hate her a bit, too. She immediately feels uncomfortable and wishes she'd headed back to her flat long ago. Longs for her bed and the solitude of her own space. When they reach Highbury Corner - halfway between Naomi's flat and her own - she has trouble keeping her feet from sprinting off without saying a proper goodnight.

"Look, Bristol, I'm - I'm sorry about the match." Naomi looks down to her feet, then to the street, then to Emily though doesn't meet her eyes. She's looking at the small row of scratches that fall just below Emily's hairline.

"It doesn't hurt." Emily reaches up to brush her fingers over the rough, red skin but freezes mid-movement when Naomi's hand cups slowly to the side of her face, her thumb sliding gently on the skin just below the scratches.

Emily swallows hard, her eyes intent on Naomi who looks as if she's maybe just realised that her hand is on Emily. So Emily reaches up, slowly pulling Naomi's hand from her face, and hears herself repeating, "It doesn't hurt." Naomi's fingers are still in-between her own and she can't be sure who's holding whom so to distract from the sensation of this rather intimate touch she says with a little laugh, "Besides, you should see the other girl."

It's a good distraction because they're both laughing now and Emily feels it's OK to pull her hand back, hooking both thumbs around the straps of her backpack and rocking back on her heels.

"So, we're OK?" Naomi asks, her smile hopeful.

"We're good. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Definitely."

Emily nods once before backing away from their conversation, but just as Naomi turns to head away from her, Emily calls out, "Oh, hey - should I be worried if that guy from the book shop says hi to me in the morning that you'll assault him?"

"Hilarious, Bristol. You're just fucking hilarious."

* * *

The following morning, Naomi is up at her usual hour, dressed and tying the laces on her trainers when her mobile rings in the bedroom. A short breath through her nose and her mouth twists into a smirk when she sees the caller ID.

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Blooooooooondieeeeeeee! What the fook are you doing up right now? You sound bloody chipper!"

"I'm always up at this hour. The question is, why are _you_ up at this hour – no wait, let me guess, you haven't been to sleep yet."

Cook's laugh is so loud and guttural, Naomi knows that it's likely he's bent backwards, open-mouthed to the sky and eyes clenched shut as he bellows. She smiles at the visual.

"So listen, Naoms, I've got two words for you and then you can get back to your fookin' calisthenics or whatever it is you're gettin' up for at six in the fookin' morning. Bristol. Reunion."

"Come again?"

"Yeah, that's right - JJ and I are coming back through for a few days and we want to see your pretty face, sugar tits." He takes a stiff drag from his cigarette. "Well, tits are optional."

Naomi stalls, finally sitting on the edge of her bed and staring at the wall opposite. It's empty. She's on the verge of two off-days in a row so finding an excuse not to go see Cook & JJ, let alone her mum, is going to be difficult.

"Come on, you know you're gonna show up – don't fight it, love."

* * *

It doesn't take much convincing to get Emily on a train back to Bristol. She'd practically suggested they forego the morning run and head straight to the train station. They don't talk much, which Emily attributes to the fact that Naomi's brought a book and is again wearing her reading glasses, making it difficult for Emily to remember common sentence structure within the English language. She scowls a lot when she reads, Emily notices. Bites at the tip of her thumbnail or twists the blonde curls near her ears around her fingers. It's a losing battle trying to keep her attention on the blurred world outside and her eyes off the blonde, so it's only a matter of time before Naomi looks up at her and pulls her hand away from her face.

"What?"

Busted.

"Nothing. Just anxious to get there."

When they do reach Temple Meads station and make their way out of the large, stone building, they both linger under the glass awning outside where cars loiter to pick up passengers. There's a light drizzle even though the sun is threatening to break through.

"Your sister is on her way then?" Naomi asks, clutching her duffel with both hands in front of her legs.

"I hope so. Haven't heard from her since we left actually," Emily answers, pulling out her mobile for the hundredth time. Six texts have gone unanswered. "Your mum coming?"

Naomi laughs, "Giving Gina a license to operate a vehicle of any sort would be criminal. I don't think she's driven – ever. I was just going to grab a cab."

"Oh, well, you don't have to wait or anything."

"It's no problem," Naomi shrugs. "I'm in no rush."

* * *

When the taxi pulls up outside a bright and cheery yellow cottage with gingerbread shutters, Emily is still on the phone with Effy so Naomi pays the driver and moves around to the boot for their bags.

"Eff – Eff, it's fine. Seriously. Just call me back when you're leaving the garage. I'll give you directions to Naomi's mum's." She's sliding out of the cab as she hangs up while Naomi waits on the curb, two bags in her hands.

"Sorry. Flat tire apparently."

"Oh no, I'm the one who's sorry," Naomi answers, casting a wary look over her shoulder. "You're about to meet my mum, remember?"

Emily swallows hard but manages a smile up at Naomi in spite of her nerves. "I can take this." She reaches for her bag and feels Naomi tense a bit as their fingers touch during the exchange. "Thanks."

Naomi leads them up the walk and three front steps before pushing through the front door. The whole house looks bathed in sunshine so that the inside seems to match the yellowy paint of the outside. Emily's nerves vanish immediately.

"Naomi? Is that you?" a cheery voice calls out from the kitchen before Gina appears in the doorway, her face full and bright with excitement.

"Hey, mum," Naomi smiles back, leaning towards her and allowing Gina to place two kisses against her cheek before pulling away, "Alright, alright. Pull yourself together." Naomi steps back, gestures awkwardly to Emily. "This is Bristol, er, Emily."

"Hi." Emily raises her hand in a small wave.

"Oh hello, dear. So glad you could make it." Gina smiles genuinely before her face breaks and her attention moves back to Naomi, "Oh bleedin _Christ_, Naomi – I hope you're shagging this one because I didn't make up the bloody guest room."

"Oh – uh, no. I'm not – I mean, my sister lives in town. I'm staying with her, actually."

"Yeah, just squad mates, mum. Bristol is one of the new lads this season."

"Oh, just as well then," Gina sighs rubbing her hands together as if they're covered in flour. "Although if the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I bet you're missing out on quite the sexual exper –"

"Tea would be great, mum! Thanks for asking." Naomi drops her bag before placing both palms against Gina's back and forcing her back into the kitchen.

She turns then to face Emily, left in shocked laughter by the front door, and reaches up to twirl her finger in a giant circle by the side of her head mouthing the word, "Mental." Emily laughs again before being pulled by her jacket sleeve into the sitting room.

Once seated on the sofa, Emily allows her eyes to drift about the room. The sofa is worn and frayed at its corners, mismatched from the other furniture, and Emily finds herself absently running her fingers over the soft fabric. Gina has a collection tea kettles that spills from one shelf onto a second that is equally cluttered with porcelain figurines of dancing children. The quilts thrown on the backs of the sofas and chairs look hand-sewn and the wood floorboards creak as Naomi walks into the room, carrying a tray of steaming teacups. Emily can't help the smile that creeps over her lips as Naomi sets the tray on the low table in front of her.

"Something funny about me playing hostess?" Naomi quirks one eyebrow and it's all Emily can do to maintain eye contact without feeling a fever rush to her cheeks.

"No, it's not that." Emily looks around the room again. "I just can't picture you … here." She gestures with one hand and laughs a bit to herself.

Naomi nods, raking her top lip across her teeth and following Emily's gaze around the room. "I definitely had my motivations for leaving the nest." She sits down on the couch, tucking one leg under the other. "And the teapots," she nods in the direction of the cluttered shelving, "certainly played their part."

At least an hour has passed by the time Katie and Effy pull up to the curb outside, but Emily decides quickly that any time spent chatting with Gina is time well-spent. Her stories were humourously colourful and apparently endless, but the real delight was in watching Naomi react. Emily had watched her openly, without averting her eyes because the girl was just that magnetic. Her arms flailed about, her gestures growing more wild with enthusiasm as Gina's stories continued on into the afternoon. Emily wondered if Naomi realised just how much of her mother she'd inherited. Gina doesn't hesitate to wrap Emily up in a tight embrace at the front door, and something clenches in Emily's chest that's lay dormant for so long she is more surprised than anything at the moisture stinging her eyes. She looks away from Naomi as she exits the house, steadying her breathing as the fresh, afternoon air hits her face.

Everything feels righted again when she's back in Katie's flat, Effy curled up to her side and the aromas of her sister's cooking thick in the air. Katie appears in the doorway, wearing an apron with white frill and looking every bit the part of a housewife.

"Seriously, Ems, you couldn't even get her to show her face at the bloody door?" Katie rests a hand on her hip while wielding a wooden spoon in the other.

"Well, I considered rolling out a red carpet and asking her to strut the catwalk for the both of you, but then that seemed a bit gratuitous." Katie had been pouting for the better of an hour about not catching a glimpse of Naomi. "What are you making in there anyway? I'm starving," Emily whines.

"Oh, stuff it. It's almost ready – keep your vagina on," Katie huffs her way back into the kitchen.

Emily snuggles into Effy and kisses the top of her head. "Well, at least I know one of you missed me."

"She misses you. It's just been a bit dull around here. Meeting the infamous Naomi was meant to be the highlight of her day. Instead we end up sitting in a service station garage all day staring at greasy ass cracks of middle-aged men. Can't blame the girl for being disappointed now can you?"

Emily laughs. "Fuck, I've missed you."

* * *

Emily finds herself in familiar surroundings after supper and two bottles of wine. Though the room no longer belongs to her, the comfort is still there. In the walls maybe. Or the slope of the ceiling above the bed. Effy sits in the window, holding her lit fag through the small crack between the pane and the sill. The smoke filtering its way back into the room doesn't bother Emily either because even its stench feels comfortable. Feels safe. It means Effy is near. She lies on the bed watching her best friend trying to direct her exhales of smoke through the cracked window.

She doesn't mean to let her thoughts constantly drift to that soft, blonde hair and those impossibly addictive blue eyes, it just happens. All the time.

"I can hear you thinking from over here," Effy says evenly as she sets her blue eyes in Emily's direction.

"I know. Sorry. I'm even annoying myself," Emily groans, rolling onto her back and running both hands through her hair. "It's getting worse."

Effy cackles her smoky laugh and flicks the butt of her cigarette down into the street. "Of course it's getting worse - you spend every waking minute together, for fuck's sake. What did you expect?"

"Not every minute," Emily argues feebly.

"So, what are you going to do about it then? Rub your clit raw?"

"_Jesus_! Eff!"

"You're my best friend and suddenly we can't talk about masturbation? Or just not about your vagina as it relates to Naomi?"

"Just – tell me something completely unrelated to my pathetic love life," Emily finally begs.

Effy pauses, considering her for a moment before lighting another cigarette. The tip glows red as she exhales.

"I kissed your sister."

* * *

** Just one more note really quickly - I read a fic that was written awhile ago so chances are you've already discovered it and I'm just behind as always. But, in case you haven't. Holy fucking shit. Probably the best piece I've read on here. As in, I read it once and then went back and read it again. So when you're waiting for me to fucking pull it together and post another chapter - take solace here: Abnormally Attracted to Sin. You're welcome.


	6. Chapter 6: Home Advantage

Effy doesn't flinch – because her DNA doesn't seem to recognise that type of response – and instead takes another long drag off her cigarette. The smoke filters around her face as a smile slips over her parted lips.

"What the actual fuck, Effy? When?_ How_?"

Effy's shoulders, slight as they are, barely register movement when she shrugs. "Just sort of happened."

Emily spins so her legs now hang off the mattress, feet dangling above the floor. She can't seem to keep her eyes from widening to saucers, and the sight of Effy leaned coolly against the window frame is either infuriating or incredibly humorous. She can't decide on which. "Elaborate."

It's probably Effy's least favorite word, always preferring her own vague language of mysterious innuendo.

"Emily, relax."

"What? I am relaxed."

"Then why are your knuckles turning white?" Effy drops her eyes to Emily's hands, clenched so tightly around the bed linen that she's lost feeling in her fingertips.

Emily immediately releases her grip and crosses her arms tightly along her chest. Effy finishes her fag and again tosses it out the window before crossing the short distance between them and climbing over Emily to lie down. She lies facing Emily so Emily spins back onto the bed, crawls under the blankets and mirrors her position.

"So, are you going to tell me how it is that my best mate just _happened_ to fall onto the lips of my fucking sister?"

"I told you – things were dull around here."

Emily laughs with her when the ridiculousness of it all settles over her. Katie kissing Effy – it's practically hysterical. "Come on, tell me what really happened."

"We were on the couch –"

"No wait – don't tell me!" Emily shakes her head, clenches her eyes tight and can feel Effy laughing against the hand she's placed over her mouth. When Emily's eyes creep open again, she sighs heavily, resuming composure. Pulls back her hand and holds it against her chest. "OK, tell me."

Effy raises both eyebrows, fixes her mouth in determination and waits.

"Really, I swear. Tell me."

"It's your fault, really."

"Well, this should be good." Emily tucks both hands under her chin and rolls her eyes.

"We were on, like, hour six of some fucking Doctor Who marathon, but then that episode came on – remember the one with the brunette who looked just like that girl you shagged? The waitress, remember?"

Emily smiles and nods, "Rebecca."

"Right, well, then we just started talking about you and girls and lesbians in general, and Katie said she wondered what all the fuss was about."

"Katie? _Katie_ wondered?"

"Yes, _Katie_. Why is it so unbelievable that your sister would be curious?"

Emily can't control the laugh that comes out when she says, "Because it's Katie! She's so … _straight_."

"Just because Katie kissed another girl doesn't make her any less straight."

Propping herself up on one elbow, Emily cocks one eyebrow upwards. "Were you at a club surrounded by horny tossers?"

"No."

"Were you drunk?"

"No."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but wanting to kiss a girl, sober, and in the comfort of your own flat, is _exactly_ what constitutes being 'less than' straight."

Effy smirks in a way Emily has never before seen that is somewhere between guilty and giddy, her icy, blue eyes growing wide, and she whispers like it's a conspiracy, "Do you think I've turned your sister gay?"

"Don't you have to actually _be_ gay in order to turn someone else gay?"

"Fuck if I know – you're sort of the expert here."

Emily collapses onto her pillow in a fit of laughter and when her mobile buzzes on the nightstand, it takes a minute of composing herself before she can answer.

"Hello?"

"I'm drunk." The tone would indicate that Naomi is not only drunk but also pouting, the combination of which Emily can hardly process.

"Where are you?"

Without a word, Effy slips from under the covers and pads over to the window sill again. She grabs another fag from the open pack on the nightstand and sits, pulling her knees up under her thinning cotton sleep shirt. Emily rolls over in bed to face Effy, her face barely illuminated by the screen of her mobile. Effy's not watching her anymore though; her eyes are to the window but Emily thinks she's somewhere much farther away. Naomi's slurs on the other end of the line bring Emily back from wondering where Effy's gone.

"Some stupid, cunting pub with too much fucking tequila. I hate tequila."

"Then why are you drinking it?"

"It's Cook's fault, bloody tosser. Are you going to come down here then?"

"Um, I'm in my pyjamas," Emily laughs.

"_Did she just ask you what you're wearing_?" Effy's strained whisper cuts across the quiet room, immediately eliciting a fuck-you finger from Emily.

"Well, I wish you were here," Naomi sulks.

"Well then you might have considered inviting me." Emily sits up, criss-crosses her legs so that her position then mirrors her sheer enjoyment of drunk Naomi, ringing her up at half-past one to tell her she misses her.

"I'm inviting you now!"

Before Emily can answer, wild shouts and howls echo into the receiver and she knows Cook has discovered Naomi. The decibels he's reaching are such that Emily has to pull the phone away from her ear until she can make out Naomi's voice, fighting its way through the chaos.

"Sorry about that. I think Cook's gotten himself into a bit of cocaine."

"Look – are you alright? I mean, you'll be OK, yeah?"

"Yes, I'll be fine. I'm fucking fantastic and we should go running in the morning because we run every morning and tomorrow … we should run."

"You're properly smashed. I think you might have a change of heart in the morning."

"No I won't!" Naomi argues desperately.

"Alright, fine. And what time do you propose we meet up for this run about town?"

"Seven. No, eight. I'll come to your flat." She pauses. "I don't know how to get to your flat."

Emily laughs again, lays back in bed and considers keeping this conversation going until dawn. "How about I just meet you at your mum's."

By the time she hangs up, Naomi has managed to confirm their plans at least eight more times and Emily is more awake than she should be without caffeine or narcotics. At some point Effy is back in bed, and maybe it's the feeling of having someone next to her, maybe it's the calming lull of Effy's voice, but eventually her eyelids become weighted and she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Without being stirred by an alarm or the movements of Effy beside her, Emily wakes at six the following morning. She forces herself to stay in bed for a solid hour before quietly slipping off into the bathroom and dressing into running gear. She is halfway down the narrow staircase when a thought resonates, and she heads back up the three or four steps. When she pushes through Katie's bedroom door, the room is darker than it should be for the time of morning, and Emily remembers that Katie has hung doubly thick curtains to block out sunlight. She hates the morning hours. She hates them to a degree that once resulted in a split lip when Emily attempted to wake her as children. But Emily is fearless of bodily harm as she stalks over to the bed and pulls back on the silky duvet until the top half of her twin is exposed, causing Katie to squint angrily in her direction.

"What the fuck!" When Katie recognizes the form leering over her as Emily she starts to protest further until Emily takes two fingers and pushes back against Katie's shoulder.

"Don't think we're not going to talk about this later."

"Talk about _what_, you fucking cow?"

Emily has already turned and is near the open doorway when she responds, "I'm going for a run. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

* * *

Emily is surprised to see Naomi on the front steps of her mum's house stretching ligaments and bending limbs and looking just generally fucking attractive for someone who should probably resemble something more like death warmed over. She shouldn't be – surprised, that is. Naomi is so clearly a work hard/play hard type and Emily knows she should have been expecting to see exactly this. Naomi even looks fit and well-rested. Her eyes bright and happy as Emily makes her way up the walk, which doesn't at all seem fair considering her state just a handful of hours before.

"Sorry about ringing you so late and all."

Emily smiles, imagines Naomi has been meticulously planning that apology since she woke up, and answers, "Let's just call it even, yeah?"

Gina's house sits near Kingswood, just outside Bristol, so Emily lets Naomi take the lead, being away from her familiar stomping grounds of Bristol center. They leave Gina's house and catch a towpath that winds around Conham Park before heading into Dundridge Park. The noise floating over the treetops registers on both their ears and before long they are stood among mums and dads and coaches on the touchline, cheering on squads of miniature football hopefuls.

It's a welcomed pause to the run and by the time they've returned to the yellow cottage, Naomi wishes she hadn't been trying so hard in front of Emily because it's possible they ran the length of 60 football pitches. As she pushes through the front door, Naomi finds herself craving a fruit smoothie and can't believe that in three months' time she's already become so dependent on blended fruit after a good run. Wonders momentarily if it's the drink she's come to crave or merely the time spent with Emily each morning. Decides it's probably best not to deconstruct on an empty stomach when she's also feeling a bit dehydrated. She thinks Emily has read her mind when she says with a bit of desperation, "I need a drink."

"Me too – think mum's probably got orange juice. Mango, if we're lucky but nothing much more exciting than that." Naomi reaches for the handle of the fridge, feeling Emily linger behind her somewhere near the kitchen doorway.

"Got any vodka?"

Naomi spins to confront Emily with her incredulous eyes, trying to gauge just how serious she's being. Emily is leant up against the doorframe but she's not relaxed, her arms crossed stiffly along her stomach.

"You're seriously asking me for vodka? At –" Naomi cuts her eyes to the grandfather clock in the entryway just behind Emily "—ten in the morning?"

Emily exhales rather loudly and for a second Naomi's chest tightens because Emily's gaze is to the kitchen window like she might be struggling with the words caught in her mouth. Just as Naomi is preparing herself for the kind of conversation her and Emily have an unspoken agreement to avoid, she hears Emily say,

"Katie snogged Effy."

Naomi tries to work the relief off her face, but settles on something that probably looks more like amusement caught by surprise. She clears her throat, contains her smirk and gives Emily a definitive nod before moving back towards entryway.

"Vodka it is then."

* * *

In an hour they've managed to finish off the last of the mango juice and have moved on to orange juice. The vodka, with good fortune, had been nearly full and remains in no danger of emptying any time soon. They sit on the floor, Naomi leant up against the sofa and Emily laid back flat, her head resting on an old, worn carpet. The laughter filling the house is unbridled and childish, collapsing into high-pitched giggles for no good reason other than a half-emptied bottle of vodka and good company. They've talked the kiss to death – both Emily's take on Effy's position and the part that Katie might have played. In the end, Naomi's convinced it was mostly harmless fun and thinks Emily probably agrees. She thinks Emily was never really worked up over the actual kiss at all. Thinks the tension started to depress from her shoulders once the words fell from her mouth and wonders, not for the first time, just how many other words are cramped up inside. Wonders just how many other moments Emily could be carrying about on her shoulders.

Naomi is attempting to gain composure after their last bout of laughter, from which she can't recall the origin, when Emily says towards the ceiling, "I feel like leg wrestling."

"Sorry?"

"Yeah – that's right, leg wrestling," Emily sits up, rests her weight on both elbows and looks over at Naomi.

"Didn't realize you'd had enough vodka to be propositioning me."

Emily narrows her eyes. "I'm not. _Cheeky_. I'm talking about – oh fuck, I always forget you're one of those damaged, misfortunate only children."

Naomi's scowl is meant to convey more disgust than it does in reality because scowling while looking at Emily's face is actually harder than it sounds.

"Katie was actually a mean, fucking competitor before she got too old to find it bollocks, but by then James had become quite fierce in his own right." Emily says this as she looks off in the distance, as if she's having serious considerations about her siblings' rankings in the art of leg wrestling.

"Care to explain what the fuck you're on about?"

"I'll do you one better – come on." Emily lies back down, pats her hand against the floor beside her.

"What?"

"Just come _here_." Emily slaps her hand again against the floor with a bit more force.

With an exaggerated sigh she thinks will effectively communicate her disinterest, Naomi sets down her glass and slides over to Emily. With further instruction, Naomi is eventually lined up beside Emily but facing opposite so that her head is at Emily's feet, their hips aligned.

"Alright, first give me your hand."

Naomi complies, hopes the sweat doesn't gather too quickly once her left hand is latched onto Emily's right. Or, at the very least, hopes Emily doesn't notice.

The rules as explained by Emily are fairly simple. Their hands are clasped to maintain leverage. With each 1-2 count, Naomi is to tap her left foot against the floor, and on the third count extend her leg upwards, latching at the crook of her knee with Emily's right leg. At this point, Emily demonstrates that the goal is to use leg strength to push against your opponent until they have flipped backwards or have bent uncomfortably to a degree that requires immediate surrender.

Naomi is in the middle of saying how by the leverage of their height difference alone, the game seems to put her at an unfair advantage over Emily, when her hand slips from Emily's and she finds her legs – first the one hooked with Emily's and then the other – flipped over and her body weight resting awkwardly on her neck. Touché.

After three or four unsuccessful rounds, Naomi's competitive streak kicks in and Emily ends up the one upside down.

She's in the middle of a particularly exaggerated rant about her victory when she remembers that her hand is still wrapped up in Emily's, and the moisture that starts to gather between the heat of their skin cannot be willed away.

The words come out and she thinks that being sort of pissed at half-past eleven is probably the cause.

"My hand is sweating."

"My mum's got cancer."

The words hang above them and everything in Naomi's body stills: her limbs, her breathing, even her blood flow seems to have slowed. They lay quiet for what feels like lifetimes, but when Naomi reenters her conscious, she feels her thumb sliding back and forth against Emily's hand. Every thought that races through her mind is technical. She wants to understand the medicinal implications. Wants to ask about hospitalisation, drug prescriptions, medical professionals, and further health risks. Nothing comforting comes to mind because her type A personality prefers to rationalise in times of trauma instead of relinquish to emotional distress. She finds this extremely frustrating for maybe the first time in her life, and so she does what she never does, and follows her instincts instead of rational thought.

When Naomi sits up she pulls Emily up with her and is met with the full brunt of her decision. Emily's face isn't scared like she's just said too much. And it isn't sad like she's thinking about her sick mum. It's something altogether more terrifying for Naomi to be met with because Emily's perfectly lovely face is expressionless. Her eyes aren't deep and sparkling, they aren't glinting with emotion or intensity. They are dark and hollow, and Naomi thinks she's never felt more empty. Naomi feels cold and alone, like a light she'd been following has suddenly gone out, and the feeling is unsettling. So when she pulls Emily to her, she grasps on tightly, wrapping her arms and hands and fingers around Emily's smaller frame, as if pulling her into that emptiness and trying to fill it.

Emily doesn't resist the embrace, but Naomi can feel her grip is loose, like she can't quite bring herself to hold onto something. Her hands fall gently at the small of Naomi's back, and Naomi can feel short breaths of hot air against her shoulder from where Emily's head rests in the crook of her neck. Naomi lessens her hold on Emily but doesn't want to let go. Can't help thinking that if she lets go of Emily now, she'll lose hold of her in other, more permanent ways. She feels Emily shrinking back a bit, pulling away from the embrace, and braces herself to see that face again - isn't confident she can handle it.

"Thanks." Emily's sentiment is as empty as her expression and Naomi never thought she could hate the sound of Emily's voice until now.

"I'm not really ... a hugger," Naomi says slowly, looks down at her hand that is still resting on Emily's side as if she released her grip on Emily and then just let her arms rest where they fell, one on either side of Emily's waist.

"Had me fooled."

When Naomi looks up, Emily's face has changed, and she knows Emily is trying to lighten the mood. She also thinks Emily might be trying at something else when she notices the way she's looking at her. Remembers the last time Emily looked at her this way and suddenly feels her heart thudding noisily against her rib cage. Naomi's left hand slowly retracts from along Emily's side and she's fairly confident that with a few, subtle movements she can inch her way back over to her drink. Emily's sudden grip on her wrist is not something she had anticipated.

A curious smile is on Emily's lips as she moves a bit closer, like she's in the middle of sorting something out while simultaneously acting on it. Naomi isn't sure exactly what 'it' is but is pretty certain it has to do with her mouth, the way Emily hasn't been able to tear her eyes away from it. Naomi is completely ill-prepared for the uncontrollable surges that overtake her entire body when Emily says slowly, "I'm going to kiss you."

Naomi is rule-governed. Feels security within guidelines, to the extent that she imposes them on herself when no one else is around to do it for her. She's lived her entire life following regimens: practice schedules, diets, exercise. She functions best within the confines of a strict set of rules. It's why being penalised for angry outbursts on the pitch had been far more devastating to her own code of ethics and character than it had been to her reputation as a player. It's what makes Emily complicated. It's why having feelings for her goes against every rule she's set in place. It's why having Emily hovering just millimetres from her lips is a terrible fucking idea. So, she says as much. "I can't let you do this."

Emily's eyes flick up quickly, but her curious smirk has turned devious and Naomi's stomach turns completely in on itself when Emily says, "So, stop me."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know - I'm cruel. And the KFF in all of you is wishing me bodily harm for leaving you hanging like this. But this chapter took longer to get out than I had originally planned so my new plan is to get out the next in a more timely manner. You all and your crazy, wonderful reviews so far have been so great and I hope I've managed to respond to everyone so far. I really do try. Oh, and especially the guest reviews, to which I'm unable to respond, much love to you all as well. OK, off to finish writing this scene so that **marsupial1974** or **lainierb** don't try to kill me in my sleep.


	7. Chapter 7: At sixes and sevens

**Author's Note: **OK, so I just have to mention two things very quickly. First, thanks for not murdering me and/or flinging yourselves off bridges for having been left with that Naomily cliffhanger. Also, you should be forewarned - this will not be the only cliffhanger. Now I've told you. Now you know. Secondly, I could not have better timed posting this chapter if I tried because I LITERALLY took a spin on a moped while on holiday with my gal today. And, well, it is every bit as fucking wonderful and romantic as Emily Fitch would have you believe. So, without further ado: Ladies and gents, welcome to chapter 7, as experienced by Emily Fitch. I hope you find her to be as delightful as ever.

* * *

Emily thinks maybe this is what paralysis is like. Those horror stories of people trapped somewhere between consciousness and anaesthesia on the operating table. In fear for their fucking lives but unable to move a single muscle. It's not something new, this sensation where her limbs become paralyzed. Useless weights that hang off her body and remain unresponsive to numerous synapses she demands her brain to fire. It's happened for as long as she can remember in moments that seem too big to digest. Katie used to sit beside her when they were much smaller, gently squeeze one of Emily's fingers in her tiny fist, and wait until it passed, and Emily was able to respond again.

She's never been introverted – that is, she's never felt shy around other people, new or old – but people often confuse a quiet confidence with something weaker. Something like fear. Truthfully, there isn't much that Emily fears. Except maybe moments like these. Moments where her head feels full and dizzy, too many thoughts swirling about. Moments where she knows someone is trying to offer comfort – like the slow rhythm of Naomi's thumb against the back of her hand – but all the words in her mouth feel like a thick coating on her tongue. When she opens her mouth to speak in these moments, it feels constricting, the words always dying out before they reach the air. Like screaming in a nightmare and knowing no one can hear you.

The force of Naomi pressed against her registers more than the touch, more than the actual feel of skin against skin, and she hates herself for this. Hates that the moment Naomi finally reaches out, finally allows some of that contact Emily's been craving for months, she's not even there to enjoy it. She's somewhere else. With Katie, possibly. With Katie, probably. Back in Pembroke. On a beach, perhaps. Maybe farther away than that, really. But the contact isn't just contact. Isn't just skin against skin. There's a pressure there, a sort of desperate clinging in those fingertips that Emily hadn't been expecting. She doesn't know what it means exactly, just that it means she's overlooked something. There's something in Naomi that's fighting through in this sudden embrace, and Emily hadn't ever taken the time to look for it before. And then she's out of her head and back in Gina's sitting room.

She's pulling back from the grip of Naomi's arms wrapped around her because she needs to see what she's missed after all these months, chances a look up to meet the eyes she thought she'd learned to read. Checks for anything out-of-place, tries to see past the hurt expression and the concerned, saddened hues that Naomi's eyes take on. But she can't see anything beyond all the worry, because this is what happens when you say the word: cancer. This is the face that people hope conveys what they can never find words to express. This is the face with which she is all too familiar. She hasn't brought it up to anyone in so long, it takes a minute to remember her manners.

"Thanks." Her voice sounds deflated and she knows, in reality, probably also sounds ungrateful. Thinks this will probably make Naomi feel like she hasn't done enough. Like the embrace did nothing to lessen the impact of poisonous cells attacking her mother's organs. And, in truth, it hasn't. Nothing can, obviously. Still, it's not what she wants to have between them: ingratitude and inadequacies.

So she thinks about Naomi's hands at her sides, how the weight of her arm as it lies along her legs feels comforting. How Naomi's fingers have been playing nervously at the fabric of her vest, and how Naomi probably doesn't even realise she's doing it. How that, in a weird way, feels comforting too.

"I'm not really … a hugger."

It's something about the way Naomi avoids eye contact when she's a bit embarrassed. The way her voice goes up an octave or so, gets this soft quality that makes her sound like she could be years younger. Or it's the tufts of hair that frame her face in small curls after a long run. It could also be as shallow as her long arms and legs, both bared and muscular during and after their runs. A fact that has not escaped Emily's most primal thoughts over the last several weeks. It's impossible to pinpoint because it's Naomi, for _chrissake_, and the reasons pile up to an extent that it doesn't even make sense to count them anymore; but the thought occurs to her then, that she is about to kiss her.

Emily is so close that Naomi has no choice but to either look at her or close her eyes and pretend this isn't happening. Emily is so close that she can already smell the citrus on Naomi's breath, notices the smallest cluster of freckles at the tip of her nose. And Naomi isn't closing her eyes, but she isn't looking at her either. Her eyes are watching Emily's mouth, so she makes a good show of it, slowly moves her tongue to her lips and moistens them, tastes oranges. And despite the weak protest Naomi tries barricading between them, she does little else to prove she'd rather Emily move away.

When Emily moves in, tilts her head to connect her lips to Naomi's, she feels a soft push against her chest, fingertips pressing against her collarbone. It takes a handful of seconds to recognise the touch as Naomi's hand, and then she is smiling into the kiss. Smiling into Naomi's mouth moving against her own, because she realises this is Naomi's feeble attempt at stopping her.

Emily releases her hold on Naomi's wrist and moves a hand to her neck instead, surprised to find that in leaving Naomi's hand unattended, it immediately finds its way to her thigh and then her side. First resting atop her shirt then slipping underneath in the kind of seamless motion that makes Emily remember she hasn't done this in a very long time. A fleeting thought crosses her conscious on whether Naomi's been busy doing this sort of thing with other girls right under her nose while Emily never took the time to notice. Never even thought to ask. Naomi runs her tongue along Emily's bottom lip, the hand on her chest lowering a bit until the backs of her fingers are grazing the soft skin between her breasts. Emily very quickly concludes that as far as other girls are concerned, she could give a shit.

A bit too eager to have Naomi's hands roam about on other parts of her body, Emily pulls with her hold on Naomi and leans back until they fall, rather clumsily, against the floor. Emily's head cracks against the planks of hardwood, instead of the carpet as she'd intended, and she winces as Naomi tries untangling their legs and arms to hold herself above Emily. The back of her head is probably throbbing a bit, but Emily is laughing along when Naomi asks between giggles and forced breaths, "Are you okay?"

"I'm good." Emily reaches up both hands, clears her throat to chase away the laughter, and traces two fingers along the low neckline of Naomi's grey vest. "I'm really good."

"Good." Naomi smiles but she's not laughing either.

Emily is almost pulsing with the anticipation of Naomi pushing her mouth onto hers again, but nearly loses it completely when she instead finds Naomi's lips and breath and quiet moans on her neck. The hand that isn't attached to the arm on which Naomi rests her weight, is also moving somewhere beneath Emily's shirt. Though she can't concentrate on much while Naomi is doing whatever the fucking hell she's doing against her pulse point and earlobe. Which is probably why she doesn't really register the movement of her own hands. Which is probably why it comes as quite a shock when Naomi gasps and looks down at her; and Emily sees for the first time the colouring of unabated desire in Naomi's eyes. She thinks it's the most superior colour to all the other colours that have ever existed. Even red, to which she is sort of partial.

It's then she realises her hands have drifted. Significantly. Three or four fingers from each hand have found their way into the elastic waistband of Naomi's jogging shorts, just sort of resting there. Her thumbs are moving slowly along the ridges of Naomi's hipbones, a feature of her fit frame Emily has always eyed with particular interest from afar.

Emily smirks up at Naomi, enjoying the way she's managed to take her by surprise. Enjoying the way she's lost her rigid control with just a touch. Not even a spectacular touch. Not even the kind of touch Emily is well-capable of giving. The kind of which she sort of prides herself in. It doesn't take more than a gentle tug against Naomi's waistband for her to collapse completely, her mouth going wild against Emily's. And it's frantic, a sort of sloppy urgency, the way Naomi is sucking at her bottom lip, then biting it, then sliding her tongue into Emily's mouth, pushing against the force of her own tongue. And she's pulling the fabric of Naomi's shirt but it's not the sensation she's craving, which is when she remembers the soft moaning and wants very much to make that happen again. Wouldn't mind if the moaning weren't so soft.

It doesn't take much manoeuvring to slip her right thigh between Naomi's legs, bending her knee upwards until the heat registers against her leg. Emily thinks the sound this elicits from Naomi might have been profanity – like the really good kind that happens out of instinct, out of pure, primal response to pleasure – if she were able to separate from Emily's lips. But instead it's just a desperate sound, breathed into her mouth. And Emily thinks it's a great, fucking sound.

The sound she doesn't hear is the latch of the back door.

"Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph's impotent cock! _Chrissake_, Naomi – don't you have a room upstairs for this sort of behaviour? Or, you know, a really lovely flat of your own in London?"

Naomi is off of her in a second, wiping furiously at her mouth and chewing the inside of her mouth. Gina breezes through the sitting room with a bag of produce, barely pausing to scold her daughter as she drifts off into the kitchen. Emily hasn't moved a muscle, feeling a different sort of paralysis that is haunting remnants of herself at sixteen, getting caught snogging on Lisa Corrigan's front porch. So she is still lying against the hardwoods when Gina appears again at the kitchen doorway.

"Emily, dear, lovely to see you again. Will you be staying for lunch?"

She dares a look in Naomi's direction, who has moved to pull her knees up close to her chest, hugging them with both arms, and rests her chin between her knee caps. Emily wonders if she's not the only one who feels like an embarrassed teenager. Naomi meets her eye, shrugs noncommittally.

"Thanks, but I can't," Emily finally answers, craning her neck back until she sees Gina hovering upside-down above her. "I'm actually really, um, late meeting my sister." Which is actually truer than it sounds.

Gina smiles and with a wave of her hand says, "Next time, dear," and disappears again.

Emily is biting her lips between her teeth when she looks back at Naomi, knowing that the corners of her mouth are turning upwards, and if she releases her clenched teeth, laughter is imminent. Naomi reaches across the low table for her drink and empties the glass in three gulps. Uses her thumb to wipe a drop of juice that has gathered in the corner of her mouth. Emily thinks she might move to the sofa and wait for Emily to leave, or at the very least, move from the floor.

She isn't expecting Naomi to grab her hand as she stands up, pulling Emily with her, even though it feels like a completely natural thing to do when it happens. She isn't expecting Naomi to lessen what little space is still left between them, and certainly isn't expecting Naomi to kiss her again, even though that's exactly what she does. With one hand at her back, she leans down and kisses her, right there in the sitting room while the sound of Gina's humming can be heard just metres away.

It's a fucking fantastic sensation, kissing Naomi while standing. She thinks back to the hotel and the taxi and the way Naomi had kissed her then. Thinks that if she had a better memory of it, it wouldn't have taken nearly four months for her to make it happen again. The kiss isn't aggressive or even urgent, and Emily thinks it feels familiar. Like the way her lips slide between Naomi's, the way she nips lightly at Naomi's bottom lip, is something she's doing by memory.

"I'll give you a lift," Naomi says when she pulls away a minute later. "Just let me grab the keys from my mum."

"Okay." Emily thinks her voice feels very small and far away.

Naomi kisses the side of her head, her temple maybe, and then heads into the kitchen. Just places her lips there and then leaves the room, as if this is how she's always left Emily standing in rooms. Emily gulps deep breaths once Naomi is gone, pulls both hands over her face and exhales forcefully, trying to calm whatever is raging inside her head and her chest and her stomach and her … other regions.

* * *

As it turns out, Naomi's mum doesn't own an automobile so much as a motorbike. And, well, it's hardly that either. The moped looks old, the paint a vintage colour like burnt orange or mustard yellow, which makes it something kitschy. Something endearing like a collection of teapots. Something entirely Gina. It's parked along the side of the house, and Emily is sort of relieved they won't have to go into a garage or shed or some other enclosed structure that might encourage her to start removing Naomi's clothing. She isn't sure exactly what had started back there, nor where it would have ended up going had Gina not waltzed in when she did. But Emily isn't opposed to having some space between her and Naomi at the moment. The fresh air is nice too, clearing the light fog of a few too many mid-morning cocktails from her head.

Naomi hands her a helmet before slipping on her own and swinging a leg over the seat of the moped. Emily snaps the helmet in place and hops on the back as if, this too, is something they've done a thousand times before.

"I thought you said giving your mum a license to drive was like a death wish or something."

"The vespa doesn't seem as threatening, you know? Less collateral damage, and all."

"That's comforting," Emily deadpans.

She isn't sure why she's able to do this. Isn't sure why her brain is suddenly functioning with not just words but entire sentences. Like she hadn't just been panting and writhing underneath Naomi just moments before. But it just sort of happens, the way everything between them always has. And she thinks that not stopping to question it, is probably what makes it work so effortlessly.

"Been on one of these before?" Naomi asks over her shoulder, slipping the key into the ignition. The motor starts, hums loudly over Emily's response.

"No, never."

She can make out just the corner of Naomi's smile from around her bulky helmet, and suddenly Naomi is wrapping her hands around Emily's forearms, pulling her body down the slope of the black, vinyl seat.

"You're going to have to get a bit closer." Naomi tugs until Emily is flush against her back, guides her arms so that they are wrapped around Naomi's stomach which feels taut through the fabric of her shirt. "Like this."

When Naomi rolls them backwards, down the slope of the drive, Emily thinks she's got a good grip on her. The vespa doesn't feel nearly as unsteady as she'd expected. But once they've rolled into the street, Naomi accelerates without warning. The bike jerks forward and Emily's arms flex instinctively, her hands grabbing at Naomi's sides for security. They swerve to the right before Naomi corrects the handlebars, but not before Emily yells out, "_Jesus_!"

"Sorry! Sorry - just easy with the hands, ey?"

Even with her life most likely at stake, Emily can't really be mad at Naomi. Can't help a smile from creeping over her lips, and has to resist very strong urges to work her hands under Naomi's shirt. Reminds herself that crashing the vespa and endangering Naomi's well-being is probably not the best laid plans.

With a bit of direction, yelled over the sounds of rushing wind and passing traffic, Emily finally spots Katie's building up the street. Naomi guides the vespa along the kerb, places her foot on the pavement once they've come to a stop to steady the bike as Emily climbs off. Naomi cuts the engine. Once she's removed her helmet and handed it back to Naomi, it occurs to Emily that she has absolutely no idea how to part ways. As if it hadn't been awkward before, they've now managed to compound the awkwardness by snogging. Properly.

Naomi is apparently better at breaking tense silences because she eventually says, "So, interesting morning."

Emily mirrors her amusement, nods her head up and down a few times. "It was … eventful."

"Do you want to grab food later? Or something?" It sounds a lot less like Naomi is asking her if she wants food and a lot more like she's asking her on a date that will probably end in the best sex of her life.

So Emily says, "Thing is, I'm not sure what I'm up to later?" Though what it sounds like in her head is more accurately, _Thing is, I'm not sure how much longer I can be around you without getting naked_. "But, you know, I'll call you later and we can sort it out," she offers as consolation.

"Okay." Naomi is still looking at her even though the sun is probably directly in her eyes because she's squinting a lot.

This seems like the right time for Emily to back away slowly or for Naomi to throw up a small wave before pulling away from the kerb. Except nothing happens. And Emily is feeling more ridiculous by the second because it's just Naomi, for _chrissake_, and they've said their goodbyes in a hundred different ways that don't involve touching. But, considering the way her bottom lip is still tingling, that all seems like a terrible, fucking waste now.

Emily crosses then uncrosses her arms, shifts her weight from one foot to the other, then eventually takes a step forward. Naomi seems to know what she's up to because she's biting her upper lip as if Emily needed any further motivation to lean in.

"Emily _fucking_ Fitch – where the _fuck_ have you been?!"

The voice pierces the quiet street, not to mention completely ruins the moment she was about to have with Naomi's lips. And when Emily turns away from the vespa, a woman walking her dog has even paused to look up the side of the building where Katie is leant angrily out the open window. When the woman looks back, makes eye contact with Emily, she quickly scurries away down the pavement. Katie's face is twisted up with rage until Emily crosses her arms along her stomach, casually steps to the side, and smiles when she sees her sister's face fall in recognition.

"Oh – hi. Sorry! I'm Katie!" She waves frantically out the window, a beaming smile where an angry scowl once was.

Emily rolls her eyes at the saccharine dripping from Katie's tone. Behind her, Naomi raises a hand uncertainly. "Hi."

"This is Naomi," Emily calls up, as if introducing the blonde is really even necessary.

Katie confirms as such when she answers in annoyance, "I know who it is, stupid."

"Look, I'm on my way up. Do you mind just fucking off for now?"

"You're always so cheerful, Ems, aren't you?" Katie scoffs. "Really nice meeting you, Naomi!"

"You too." Emily can't really decipher the tone in Naomi's response, just knows she's not exactly looking forward to turning around and facing her head on just yet.

It seems Katie has received the message when she disappears from the open window, only to appear again half a second later. "Oh – dinner! Ems, I'm cooking something fucking fabulous for dinner tonight and Naomi – you're coming. Got it?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure, sounds great," Naomi manages.

When Emily is satisfied that Katie isn't going to keep reappearing like some horrid puppet show, she swivels on the balls of her feet and slowly looks up to meet Naomi's eyes. There is a smirk playing on her lips and her eyes look like she's still sorting out what just happened.

"So … your sister then?"

"Yep."

"She's … charming."

"You have no idea," Emily says dryly, looks off down the street.

"And, she knows who I am?"

Emily's eyes shoot back to find Naomi wearing an even bigger smirk, and so she scoffs to distract from the flush she feels crawling up her cheeks. "Yeah, well, I may have mentioned some vague description of this girl who keeps turning up at my flat every morning."

"That right?"

Emily shrugs with nonchalance, feels herself smiling stupidly and without restraint.

"So does your sister invite all the girls you've described as potential stalkers into her flat for a home-cooked meal?"

Emily senses the inquiry behind the sarcasm, finding it adorably innocent that Naomi is worried about other girls. She moves towards her again, confident that no amount of shouting from Katie or Effy or the Prime Minister, for that matter, could possibly stop her this time around. When she's a breath away from making contact, leaned in so closely that she hears the pace of Naomi's breath quickening, Emily smiles and says, "Only the blonde ones."


	8. Chapter 8: Centre Circle

**Author's Note:** Fucking hell, are we ever going to leave Bristol and return to London? Maybe eventually. Possibly not. Afterall, in London there is no Gina and there is no Keffy whereas in this chapter, well, I'll let you read it for yourselves. I'm dedicating this particular bit to **fookyeahskins **in hopes I've done alright by Keffy shipper standards. I probably could have written this chapter for another three days straight - it just wouldn't quit - but I am such an impatient reader, I thought it better to post now, write more later. Cheers!

* * *

Naomi returns home to find Gina just as she left her, scurrying about the kitchen, a happy tune floating from her closed lips. Gina makes her own preserves. Bakes her own breads. Tends her own gardens. But she also makes her own happiness out of solitude, and always has. Something that didn't come along with the blue eyes and blonde hair when Naomi was inheriting traits from her mother. Finding comfort in solitude was always a learnt behaviour. And maybe she's perfected it in a way that fools everyone into thinking it comes naturally. Naomi Campbell: strong, solid pillar of independence. But when she watches her mum, whirling about the kitchen in long, flowing garments that hide a plumper, softer frame, Naomi knows this is what strength looks like. This is why she'd eventually left, struck out on her own. It was never the teapots, not really. It was the constant reminder of her mother, the phoenix, soaring out from the wreckage of their broken past. Meanwhile, Naomi, with all her meticulous organisation, all her regimented diligence to schedule, to training, to success, even to friendship, still found herself brushing remnants of ash from her arms and hands. It was easier to get lost in a new life than to sort out the old one. It's why she'd been so attracted to the bustle of London. Because could you ever really feel alone when sharing a plot of land with eight million other people?

She's not sure if a conversation about her earlier behaviour is forthcoming, though that panicked anxiety from her youth is no longer a factor. Her mum had rarely given a shit about most things anyway, and Naomi bringing home girls had been no exception. When Gina turns from the kitchen sink and sets a bowl of fresh strawberries onto the table, she eyes Naomi as a precursor to what happens next.

"You and Emily seem to be getting on then?"

"Subtle, mum." Naomi grabs a strawberry from the bowl and bites the tip. "Very subtle."

Gina sits down at the table, pats the seat next to her, encouraging Naomi to join her. And, despite a dramatic eye roll, she complies, plucking two or three more strawberries from the dish.

"Alright, come on. Let's have it," Naomi challenges with a wave of her hand.

"Why do you automatically assume I've something to say? Can't I just have a chat with my daughter who never comes to see her poor mother unless she's followed some bird back to Bristol?"

"Not true!" The protest is fairly ineffectual as Naomi fights to keep a smile from forming, and decides instead to eat another berry.

"She seems lovely, Naomi." Gina's tone is soft as is her touch when she places a hand over Naomi's on the table top.

"Yeah, well, that's because she _is_ lovely, but she's also, you know, complicated."

"Oh, Naomi – with your busy head, you could complicate a boiling pot of water, for fuck's sake."

"My 'busy head,' as you so kindly put it, keeps my shit sorted. Keeps my life _un_complicated, thank you very much. Besides, Bristol and I are mates – really good mates, actually. I mean, anything more than that would just jeopardise what already works." Naomi quickly attributes the overshare with her mum to the light fog of vodka and orange juice still working its way out of her head. But her eyes flick up to meet her mother's with a bit too much earnest when she adds, "Right?"

"Well, I'm no more qualified to dole advice on love and loss than I am to operate a steamship. But here's the way I see it. You've got another 50, maybe 60 years left on this sodding earth, if we haven't managed to piss and shit our way through each and every natural resource before then."

"Is this going somewhere applicable to your daughter's quandary, or are we simply rehashing environmentalism for the hundredth time?"

Gina smiles and sighs. "I don't think we're meant to spend what little time we have being satisfied with what works. I think we're meant to _work_ to make things even better. You've spent your whole life doing just that, love. Shouldn't you give Emily the same courtesy?"

Naomi nibbles absently at the tip of her thumb, her eyes no longer on Gina, just glazed over somewhere in the direction of the fridge. Her mind is trying to work it out, trying to sort Emily into an equation with a solution. Thinks if there's a certainty to it, like Newton's physics or Pascal's theorem, she would feel more comfortable engaging in the task of figuring it all out. Gina's voice stills her busy thoughts and when Naomi looks up, her mum is no longer even seated at the table.

She's busying herself around the kitchen again when she says in a lighter tone, "I'm happy you and Emily's friendship is so important to you, dear. Christ knows, you giving importance to anything other than that fucking ball makes a nice change." Gina approaches her daughter then, lays a hand on her shoulder before Naomi can interject. "Though, whatever it is I walked in on seemed to be working quite nicely too, you know."

"Mum – oh my god! _Please_, there is absolutely _no_ worse sound than to hear your commentary on … _that_." Naomi recognises her own inarticulate shortcomings in calling one of the most sexually-charged, physically arousing twenty minutes of her life '_that_;' but, also recognises she's already shared more than enough for one morning. "I'm going to shower," she announces, standing abruptly. " Lovely chat, mum, really. Can't imagine why I don't pop round more often," she calls down the stairs while bounding up them, two at a time.

Once up in her room, which despite the passing of time still remains just as she left it after finishing college, Naomi pulls the elastic from her hair and exhales, resting her hands on her hips. Her bed looks rather inviting, considering the thoughts racing through her head of Emily's hands and mouth and the smooth skin of her leg as it slid between her own. Though, she's also feeling a bit rubbish, the pleasant haze of her cocktails wearing thin and the thoughts of dried sweat in her hair and creases of her skin. Fuck it, she concludes almost audibly, two birds, one stone. She can shower _while_ replaying the events of her morning, which is obviously the most efficient and sensible course of action. And Naomi is nothing if not efficient.

Masturbating in the shower at her mum's seems appropriate, though some might not see it that way. Something about being back here, in this house, in this city that never really felt like her own, is making her feel like an entirely different person. Like she's walking about in someone else's skin, and it doesn't fit quite right, but it's not altogether unpleasant either. A responsible, mature Naomi in her mid-twenties would never, ever roll about with another girl on her Granny's imported, antique carpet in the middle of Gina's sitting room. And, in fact, Naomi had a hard time remembering if she'd ever allowed that to happen in her younger, only slightly more reckless and less rigid, teenage years. So then, rubbing one out in the guest shower of her mum's house feels exactly like the appropriate thing to do.

She's losing control a bit, in exactly the way Liv had predicted she would. Can feel her mind lingering for longer periods of time on things that aren't related to success and career advancement. Things that aren't technique and improvement, playbooks or game footage. When Naomi's palm presses against the slick, white tiles and the cool sensation fights against the heat radiating from somewhere deep beneath her skin, she is thinking of nothing but petite fingers curled around her neck, a warm urgency breathing just below her earlobe, a throaty voice that makes an invitation for tea sound like the most tawdry, sexual proposition you've ever fucking heard. Which is why she whimpers a bit louder than she'd planned and feels her legs go a bit wobbly as her orgasm starts throbbing through the pressure she's applied on her clitoris and threads outward to every nerve ending in her body. The whole ordeal is pleasantly exhausting and eventually, Naomi finds herself slumped against the slope of the bathtub, a light rain of shower water pelting her face and stomach and tits from above.

* * *

The day starts to drag on the more time she spends worrying about dinner and etiquette and meeting friends and sisters and just generally being in the presence of Emily again. By the time she's sliding into the backseat of a taxi, she's come no closer to figuring out what the hell to do about the _thing_ with Emily. Nor has she become any less inarticulate, which is only adding to her frustrations surrounding the topic. And she has no tolerance for indecision, hates that characteristic in people and refuses to admit she is capable of finding it in herself. So when the cab pulls round to Katie's flat and she knows seeing Emily is now momentarily inevitable, she steels herself with a bit of resolve to go ahead and kiss Emily as soon as she sees her. Knows that the time between snogging someone and seeing them again is much like coming out from the waves to rest on the beach. Letting your skin bathe in the warm sun until the salt and sand are baked on its surface, and when you get around to braving the ocean again, the temperature change is going to be a fucking shock to your system.

She's dialling Emily as she steps onto the pavement and tries to concentrate on sounding casual instead of letting her mind think back on Emily's flirtatious voice from earlier and the effect it had had on her in this very spot.

"Hey, I've just arrived. Should I buzz the lockbox or …"

"I'll be right down." Emily's voice is quick and light and does nothing to calm the nerves suddenly coursing through Naomi's entire body. She grips the neck of the wine bottle tighter, remembering that to drop it would ruin the gesture.

Seconds later, Emily pushes open the large front door of the building and Naomi's nerves can do little to hinder her impulses. Because even though it's nothing more than a striped, collared shirt, buttoned low and rolled just below her elbows; even though her hair is nothing spectacular, just pinned up randomly to the back of her head; even though her lips are just glossed not even shaded, Naomi seriously considers taking Emily right there in the empty corridor. Instead, she goes with plan A and moves in close while Emily is trying to say "Hi," but instead muffles the greeting as their lips slide together. Emily doesn't take long to react or respond, places her hands forcefully around Naomi's ribcage and pushes her against the wall of the entryway. Naomi reaches out with her one, free hand letting it rest on Emily's hip just above where the denim sits low on her waist. Emily smells like something that isn't floral enough to be perfume nor masculine enough to be cologne, and Naomi considers whether it could just be her own, natural, irresistible scent. Before she has time to let her head swell with that notion, Emily is pulling away and has probably recalled that they have dinner plans, or something else exceptionally trivial. The gloss on Emily's lips tastes of mint and honey, and Naomi finds herself rubbing it between her own lips, trying to make the memory of it linger on.

Emily steps back just far enough so that her hands fall to Naomi's stomach, her fingertips applying just the lightest amount of pressure, and they stand breathing unsteadily for several seconds until Emily says, "What was I saying?"

"I think it was something really profound like 'hi.'"

"Right. Hi."

"Hey."

"You know, for the record," Emily contorts her face in serious consideration, "I think your greeting beat out my greeting."

"Well, you know me – undying competitive streak and all."

Emily smiles up in a way that says, yes, I do know you. And Naomi thinks for a moment that it's also maybe the kind of smile that precedes another proper kiss, but instead Emily says, "So, there's competitive and then there's showing up with flowers and wine." She cocks an eyebrow towards the arrangement and dark glass bottle that Naomi is clutching in the hand that isn't still resting on Emily's hip.

"These were actually meant for … your sister," Naomi admits uncertainly.

Emily smiles up at her, then pulls up to her tiptoes, let's her lips graze the corner of Naomi's mouth and winks. "Kinky."

Before she can work up her brain to respond, Emily is taking hold of Naomi's hand and leading them towards the lift. Once inside, Emily drops her hand and crosses to the opposite side of the enclosed area, pushes a button on the panel and holds one finger out towards Naomi.

"You," she says pointedly, though can't help from smiling as she leans against the panelled wall of the lift, "stay over there."

* * *

Once inside the flat, Naomi's senses are assaulted by the kind of aromas you expect to find in fine dining establishments. Music is drifting down the front hall from some other room, and as Emily leads her farther into the flat, the music swells until they reach a modest-sized sitting room where a slight and dark-clad brunette stands swaying in front of an old stereo.

"Eff," Emily calls out and the girl turns, adjusting the volume of the music as she faces them.

It takes a minute for Naomi to recognise the familiarity of Effy as an old classmate, because it's difficult to look at her without first being confronted with how fucking gorgeous the girl is, and effortlessly at that. Effy's dark and smoky eyes were piercing, everyone would say so because they actually feel like knives when she sets them on you, penetrating in a way that isn't necessarily unpleasant. But it's also how her petite features are set on her slender face. The way her mouth seemed to settle between a friendly smirk and utter disinterest. Naomi decides within that seven second window that for Katie to have gotten curious with the likes of Effy Stonem, she probably deserves some sort of congratulatory medal from the lesbian community at large.

"Hi. Naomi," Naomi nods a greeting, sensing that Effy is neither a formal hand-shaker nor the hugging type, which works out for both of them.

"Hey. Yeah, Naomi. I remember."

Naomi isn't sure if she's lying or not because the inflection is completely unreadable, and she would probably have to be skilled in the art of interrogation to ever really know for sure. But she doesn't have much time to try and recall interacting with Effy during their years in college because another voice is cutting through the room.

"Hi! You made it – oh, lovely, you've brought red. I'm fucking tired of rosé already, am I right? And, as far as booze are concerned, if it's not served at three fingers in a rocks glass, Effy won't touch it, isn't that right, babe?" Katie has taken the wine from Naomi and winks in Effy's direction, producing something a bit more genuine in her small, smirking mouth.

"These are for you." Naomi hands over the bouquet and watches Katie's face light up again.

"Oh my god, I love them! You're going to make me blush, Naomi." Katie's tone turns coy and Naomi smiles awkwardly, chances a look over at Emily who is watching her twin and rolling her eyes. "Eff, put these in some water, will you, babe?" She inhales dramatically, burying her face into the soft petals.

Effy takes the bouquet from Katie, places a lingering kiss on her cheek. "Sure thing, hon."

As the two exit into the kitchen, Naomi turns a quizzical expression on Emily who's face is less confused and more bored as she shakes her head slowly from side to side.

"They've been at it like this all day," she explains in a dull tone. "Think they're being _fucking hilarious_," she raises her voice purposefully toward the kitchen doorway, "just because I came home and may have _slightly_ overreacted about the whole, you know, kissing thing."

Naomi nods in understanding and casts a look over her shoulder, smiling at the two girls in the kitchen, sees Effy at the sink filling a vase with water and when Katie places a hand at the small of her back, something about it doesn't look so hilarious. But then Katie is moving towards them again, holding two glasses of wine. Presents one to Naomi and then to Emily as she continues with what seems to just be her constant ramble.

"_Slightly_ overreacted is a fucking understatement. I considered petitioning for a restraining order, for chrissake," Katie laughs, flipping two strands of her dark, auburn hair behind an ear. "She comes barrelling through the flat so worked up, I was like, 'Easy, babe – maybe you need a cold shower or something' but don't take it out on me."

Naomi pulls both lips between her teeth to keep from laughing out loud, looks over to find Emily attempting sibling homicide by way of a serious death glare as she mouths, "Fuck. Off."

But Katie is unfazed as she laughs, assumedly at her own retelling of the event, and places a hand on Naomi's forearm when she says, "Oh, Naomi, I hope you eat meat. Shit – I didn't even think to have Ems ask you."

"Oh no, I do. Definitely. And, it smells amazing, so you could probably serve me donkey balls and I'd eat them."

Katie's face falls sombre. "Fuck. Donkey balls, I knew I should have clipped that recipe." A laugh escapes unexpectedly as Naomi reacts to Katie's quick-spun sarcasm. Wonders if it's just a Fitch family trait to banter with such quick precision. "Sorry, you're stuck with lamb shanks tonight, but they'll rock your fucking socks off just the same. Just another minute or so, okay – have a seat and relax for a bit, yeah?" Katie gives Naomi's arm a light squeeze before slipping off into the kitchen again.

Emily waves her arm towards the sofa, gesturing for Naomi to take a seat. Once they are seated a fair distance from each other, Naomi notices that Emily looks a bit restless, letting her eyes drift about the room instead of in Naomi's direction. She finally sighs and turns slightly on the sofa cushion, folding her leg so that her knee nearly rests on Naomi's lower thigh. With great effort, Naomi manages not to empty the contents of her wine glass down the front of her shirt.

"I didn't – I didn't get back here and … I mean, I wasn't all – it's not like I needed a –"

Emily's mouth does this thing when she's nervous, sort of crooks downward, her lips sort of shifting around like feet shuffling or hands wringing, except it's her mouth which is infinitely more attractive than her feet or even her hands. Which explains why Naomi is smiling affectionately at that nervous, little mouth one minute and pressing her lips to it the next. She's careful not to push too far, knows coming into contact with Emily's mouth is dangerous at taxi ranks and in darkened doorways, so having it happen on a sofa should be handled with some delicacy. But she can feel Emily relax at the touch, can feel a tension slipping away when she pulls back and finds Emily's eyes still closed, lips curled up.

"—cold shower." Emily finishes her broken and staggered train of thought when she opens her eyes.

Naomi dabs her lips, slides one hand just above Emily's kneecap and smiles. "Well, that makes one of us."

Emily's eyes go wide at either the touch or the admission, but when Effy silently materialises in front of them, draping herself on the arm rest of a reading chair, Naomi returns her hand to her own lap.

Katie waltzes in next, sets a dish of something steaming and fragrant onto the table, and rests her hands on her hips as she turns towards them. "Dinner is served, bitches."

* * *

When the food has been consumed and cleared, Naomi finds herself feeling relaxed and comfortable in the company of these three women. She's taken a seat on one end of the sofa, Emily on the other, an unspoken arrangement that they should keep at a safe distance in the company of others. In the company of wine and after-dinner liqueur. Katie is in the reading chair, legs stretched onto the ottoman where Effy is perched, massaging the balls of Katie's feet in her nimble hands. Emily doesn't seem to pay it any mind, causing Naomi to question whether this is normal behaviour between the two and no longer part of the game they were playing at earlier. Can't help but find the familiarity of it rather endearing.

"Oh, what the fuck was her name?" Katie is trying to retell the story of Emily's first girl-girl experience, while Emily futilely fights against it.

Effy's gaze on Emily narrows as if she's trying to syphon the information directly out of Emily's memory banks. "Cora," she says finally, a grin of satisfaction across her lips as she watches Emily bury her face into both hands.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Emily's voice is muffled against her palms when Katie belts out triumphant laughter, raising her glass to clink against Effy's, who hasn't even turned around to face the other twin. Just somehow knows the gesture is there for her to return.

"Yes! Fucking Cora," Katie laughs, and Naomi can't help but laugh along with her because Emily's twin is just kind of infectious like that. Her big, affronting personality and her loud, excitable voice that lisps at the most adorable intervals. Naomi thinks that if Katie hated you, it would be all-too-easy to despise her in return, might even seem instinctual. But as far as she's concerned, Katie Fitch is a fucking delight. "Oh my god, poor Em was so fucking obvious about the whole affair. Sneaking that tart in and out of the broom closet near the gymnasium – thought you were being well stealth though didn't you, Em?"

"I am so not participating in this trip down memory lane." Emily takes a long sip of bourbon and never flinches from the burn that no doubt trickles down her throat. Naomi notices this has a curious effect on the area between her thighs, and decides to excuse herself for the loo.

"Just at the top of the stairs," Emily informs her.

"Thanks." She sets down her glass of port and heads briskly towards the front hall where she'd seen the staircase. Finds the door to the toilet and runs cold water over her hands and wrists once she's locked safely inside. Her reflection in the mirror looks flushed, rosy cheeks from too much wine and plenty of laughter. She raises both hands to her face, presses the cooled skin to her warm cheeks and takes several deep breaths. After what seems like an adequate amount of time for someone to wee and rinse up, she dries her hands and face and exits into the darkened corridor.

She can hear Katie's cackling laughter as she descends the stairs, hopes she hasn't missed out on any other trinkets of information on Emily, but instead finds Emily exiting the kitchen through another doorway that connects to the front corridor. It's a split second between making eye contact and finding herself pushed against the railing of the staircase. Emily doesn't wait long before slipping a hand under the cotton of Naomi's tee shirt, trailing two fingers down the ridges of her spine. A groan Naomi can't control escapes as she opens her mouth to Emily's tongue that tastes like bourbon, feels like fucking silk against the surface of her own. When Naomi's hands clasp behind Emily's neck, pulling her closer, she estimates it would take the strength of ten men to have them removed. She feels Emily's entire body moving in closer, pushing her shoulder blades harder against the wooden rungs of the railing. Emily slides her hand around from Naomi's back, trails her fingers down her abdomen which is shaking involuntarily at the unexpected touch. Emily stops just short of reaching Naomi's denim waistband and slides her thumb horizontally until it finds a hipbone, grips Naomi's waist there and moves her other hand from where it had been tangled in blonde hair. Rests her palm against Naomi's chest, fingertips curling to meet her collarbone, and pulls back.

"Having fun?" Emily asks while attempting to regulate her breathing.

"Loads."

"Good." Emily is moving her hands again, folding them over Naomi's, which are still clasped at the back of her neck, and tugs at them gently while her lips move softly, carefully, less urgently across Naomi's. Naomi lets her hands fall and intertwine with Emily's just as the kiss is ending.

Emily Fitch: bearing the strength of ten fucking men.

* * *

"I don't recognise the artist, but this is a great album," Naomi comments to no one in particular as she picks up her glass, drains the port in one, long swell and sits back onto the sofa, hoping to distract from the heat in her chest and neck.

Emily lingers beside the sofa, taking Naomi's empty glass from her and disappearing into the kitchen.

"Oh, well, don't feel like a prat for not knowing the artist," Katie is answering as Naomi's gaze trails after Emily leaving the room. "Because Effy _only_ listens to her albums on vinyl and she _only_ listens to fucking underground, indie shit that no one has ever heard of."

Effy has curled herself into a window sill at the far corner of the room, smoking a fag like she's being photographed. Naomi thinks Emily was right when she said capturing a subject like Effy made it easy on the artist.

"Glad you like it, Naomi. They're called Beach House. And before that we were listening to some tracks by Paul Simon – are you familiar with him, Katie?"

Katie cranes her neck around the side of her chair so she can properly scowl in Effy's direction. "You're so fucking clever, aren't you?"

Effy shrugs, lips curling into a smile as she takes another drag.

"Anyway, I'm fucking exhausted. I'm going to head on," Katie announces to the room.

"What? I just refilled drinks." Emily has returned from the kitchen, places Naomi's glass in front of her and takes a slow sip of bourbon. Naomi swallows hard remembering the oaky taste against her tongue.

"Yeah, alright – what do you want me to do? Hold your hand while you finish them?"

"Sort of," Emily shrugs as Katie stands and the two laugh in unison, creating one of the most perfect sounds Naomi has ever witnessed.

Katie wraps her arms around Emily's waist, rests her head into the crook of her sister's neck as Emily drapes an arm lazily along Katie's shoulders.

"Thanks for keeping me fed. I love you a bit, you know."

"Love you too. And your bits." Katie is laughing again as Emily shoves her away.

"_Jesus_! You're so fucking twisted when you're half-cocked." Emily takes another sip from her glass before slumping onto the sofa.

"It was good to meet you, Naomi. You should get my sister back to Bristol more often, yeah?"

"I'll see what I can do. And, thank you, dinner was absolutely brilliant."

Katie stumbles a bit as she approaches Naomi, leans down and places one kiss on each cheek with dramatic flourish. "I'll take Eff upstairs with me so you can pretend to make excuses about needing to head home or some such bollocks." Naomi can feel herself blush as Katie throws her a wink and moves towards the open window. "Effy, come tuck me in. I'm pissed and I need a caretaker," Katie whines.

"Isn't the mental one on suicide watch typically in greater need of caretaking?" Effy stands from the sill and faces Katie as the twin drapes both arms on Effy's frail shoulders.

"Come on," Katie pulls at one of Effy's hands, wrapping it around her back until it sits on her side. Leads them towards the front hall with her own arm mirroring Effy's. "You make sure I drink plenty of water, and I'll make sure you don't kill yourself, yeah?"

"Night, Eff," Emily calls lazily without moving.

"Night, Emily. See you later, Naomi."

"See you," Naomi calls after them as they've exited, leaving the room feeling suddenly very large and ominous.

Emily props her foot on the low table in front of them, crosses her other leg over top and looks down the length of the sofa towards Naomi. "And then there were two."


	9. Chapter 9: Tap In

**Author's Note:** So, um, then this happened ...

* * *

"So, your sister's pretty great."

Emily raises an eyebrow suggestively. "You know, she's pretty well gone – probably be an easy pull for you at this point if you want to have a go."

Naomi scoffs, contorting her face a bit, and flings a loose fist in the direction of Emily's upper arm. Emily's too quick, easily catching Naomi's hand in her own before it hits, and then just holds it there, hovering above the sofa cushion between them. She doesn't break eye contact as she slowly works her fingers to thread with Naomi's, finally letting their hands fall back against the cushion. She watches the change in atmosphere as it registers on Naomi's face, a small and bashful smile playing on her lips when she looks away and fiddles the hem of her white tee shirt.

Being a tall, athletic, incredibly and naturally attractive girl with soft, blonde hair and magnetic blue eyes, Emily takes note of how Naomi rarely makes an effort, opting most often for tee shirts and jeans. And then thinks, why would you, if simple garments and accessories just hung that flawlessly on your frame. It's not a fair game of cards when girls like Naomi sit at your table – all long legs, perky breasts, and pink lips – and Emily admits that if she weren't in the habit of trying to come in constant contact with those lovely features, she could probably despise a girl like Naomi for making it look so bloody easy.

"Effy, as well, she's – I mean, I guess I didn't remember her as being so –" Emily's laughter cuts through the room, and Naomi finally turns back to face the giggling redhead. "What's so funny?"

Emily fixes her eyes in a way that almost state the obvious without words. "She's gorgeous, I know." Emily waits expectantly, watches Naomi's mouth fall open slightly as she contemplates a response and finally conceding with a smile.

"Like, _really_ gorgeous. It's sort of … abrasive."

Still settling her laughter, Emily nods while she sips again on her glass of bourbon.

"So, it wasn't distracting then? Photographing your best mate while she lay about completely … naked?"

"Well, I'm only human," Emily's admission produces a lovely pitch of laughter in Naomi and she lightly squeezes the hand she's been holding, "but, I'm also entirely capable of befriending beautiful women without completely losing control of my more … primal impulses." Emily dares a glance at the girl to her left, a smile still playing on her lips, but the expression on Naomi's face is such that Emily has to swallow hard before adding, "For the most part."

"You should set down your glass." It's not really a suggestion or a request, but something more like an order. Some demanding tone that thickens Naomi's soft lilt and immediately makes Emily wish she weren't wearing any trousers. Thinks that if Naomi keeps up this sort of approach, that ending up that way is a definite possibility.

Emily leans forward, moving her glass to the table from where it had been resting on her stomach, but before she's leant back into the sofa, Naomi is already pulling at the hands linked between them. Emily lurches with a little less suave than she'd hoped, but feels the manoeuver is ultimately successful once she's straddled over Naomi's lap, bum resting on her thighs and sweaty hands on her shoulder caps.

"Very smooth, Bristol," Naomi smirks, looking up to Emily's face.

"Maybe if you weren't so eager – throwing off my balance and all," Emily challenges, moving her hands to the nape of Naomi's necks and tangling her fingers in the soft curls there.

"How about I'll forgive you for the bruise to my thigh if you just fucking kiss me already." Naomi's hands are at Emily's back, pulling herself up to close the short distance between them when Emily leans back, moves her hands from neck to shoulders and gives Naomi a curious look.

"Wait."

"I'm not really a patient person." Naomi attempts again to pull Emily towards her, this time feeling Emily's firm push against her shoulders.

"My name's not Bristol, you know."

Emily isn't allowing much space between them now, just teasing her open mouth within breathing distance of Naomi's, when a look of understanding finally breaks over Naomi's face. She smiles at the implication as her hands slide from the small of Emily's back down over hips and thighs, raking her fingers across the fabric there.

"So then fucking kiss me, Emily."

And it's really, _really_ unfair that either of them are still constricted by denim or shirts or knickers because at that exact moment Emily's entire body is screaming to be naked with Naomi Campbell. In the meantime, she crashes their mouths together and grabs fistfuls of hair at the back of Naomi's head. Emily's movements are frantic, and she surrenders to the loss of any composure she might have had earlier in the evening. Earlier in their friendship. Earlier in her life, before it collided with Naomi. She can feel herself resisting an urge to rock back and forth, to create some friction and ease the throbbing between her legs. But as her willpower crumbles and she starts to slide forward, Naomi's hands are against her hipbones, then an arm wraps around her waist, and suddenly she's falling back against the sofa, watching a flushed and panting Naomi kneeling above her and removing her blazer. And because, apparently, her blonde counterpart is a much more keen operator than she, Emily finds her legs are still wrapped around Naomi as she lowers herself back down.

"Turns out your small stature actually comes in handy, Emily."

She's griping the cotton of Naomi's tee with an amount of pressure that wouldn't be kind to apply to actual skin when her lips go mad against Naomi's again. Pulling and biting and moaning when she feels movement between her legs, Naomi slowly pulling herself up and then back. And the weight and the rhythm is both helping and exacerbating the violent pulsing in her knickers.

"Emily, are you trying to ruin my shirt or simply remove it?"

Emily's eyes fly open along with her hands, releasing the white cotton now stretched and wrinkled, and she can see her own chest heaving dramatically as she looks up at Naomi. "Sorry, but you've got to stop saying that."

Naomi grins, tilts her head to kiss the skin below Emily's jawline that's gone pink and feels hot against her lips. Speaks softly in clips between kisses. "Why … would I want to do that … Emily?"

Emily's breath catches audibly and, clenching her eyes tight in an attempt to form actual words, she manages, "Because when you say my name like that, I'm not thinking about kissing you."

Naomi pulls back slowly, lets her lips rest just above Emily's so that the touch is so slight when she says, "Yeah, that's sort of the point." She's moving her mouth again, making her way down Emily's neck to her chest and easily working with one hand to open her shirt, button by button, placing kisses whenever new bits of warm skin are exposed.

Having temporarily lost all brain function, Emily grabs at the sofa cushions, closes her eyes again, and exhales an, "Oh, fuck." But within seconds, Naomi has reached the satin and lace of Emily's bra which is when she remembers they're still on Katie's sofa. In Katie's flat. "Shit – wait, wait, wait," Emily rushes out, finally daring to put her hands back on Naomi.

Naomi looks up then, not bothering to remove her hand from where it's come to rest under Emily's shirt. Runs her thumb along the smooth satin of Emily's bra. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing." Emily moves to sit up then. "Just, um, just give me, like, sixty seconds." She's up and off the couch without waiting for a response and hurrying towards the stairs.

Emily takes them two or three at a time and has to consciously slow her pace, her hurried and frantic breath, before quietly opening the door at the end of the corridor. The room is dark, a dim glow from a street lamp through the window providing just enough light for Emily to make her way towards the bed. The smallest fraction of guilt creeps over her that she is about to stir her best mate from sleep. It's not often that Effy looks so peaceful. But a quick flash of Naomi between her legs and a pang of urgency in her knickers is all it takes to keep her on task.

"Eff." And even her whisper sounds frantic so she clears her throat to regain some sense of calm. Seems cruel to both evict _and_ properly scare the piss out of her. "Hey, Eff, wake up."

When Effy's eyes open, it's as if she'd never been asleep at all. She finds Emily leant over her, lets her eyes drift down to the opening of Emily's shirt now gaping from where Naomi had worked open the buttons.

"Fucking hell, you're about to pull, aren't you?"

Emily follows Effy's line of vision until she's looking down at her own exposed bra, her own chest laid bare. Offers her best look of guilt and contrition when she answers, "Sort of looks that way?"

Effy is already slipping from under sheets and blankets when she says, "Katie saws logs like a fucking lumberjack when she's drunk." Emily watches as Effy moves around the bed, stopping in front of her and scowling in nothing but a sleep shirt as she crosses her arms along her stomach. Emily can't help but smile and wrap her arms around Effy's shoulders, pulling her in tight. "You owe me so fucking hard," she grumbles into Emily's shoulder.

"Thank you thank you thank you!"

Emily follows Effy into the corridor and just as she is headed for the stairs to pick up where she left off, preferably with less clothes, she stops short and calls back up to Effy in a strained whisper. "Hold your hand over her nose and mouth for about fifteen seconds and she usually shuts up." She's fairly certain the hint of a smile crosses Effy's lips before she disappears behind Katie's bedroom door, but Emily is hardly focused on anything other than getting Naomi separated from her shirt and jeans.

She tries to remember what it was like when she was a bit younger, fully submersed in her sexuality and no longer timid around girls. How initially she loved the chase, craved that moment when she could sense a girl had gone from curious to interested. Loved the feeling of power that surged through her when she had a girl trailing after her out of the club, or pushed up against a toilet stall. Remembers there was a time when her confidence was solid as steel. Takes the corner into the room where Naomi is no longer sitting but standing, flipping through records on the shelving near the stereo, and immediately remembers that those days are long gone. Those girls with their coy smiles and nervous, uncertain touches are a distant memory. Naomi turns, just with her head in that kind of over-the-shoulder sort of way that should be photographed; and Emily knows with absolute certainty that, as far as retaining some of that cool confidence from her youth, she's completely fucked.

She moves, without urgency, and stops in front of Naomi, leaving just a few paces between them. Stuffs her hands into her back pockets and wonders if it's obvious just how much her stomach is twitching with nerves.

"I was trying to look really casual by standing over here just sort of, you know, sifting through records … as one does." Emily smiles up at her, stifles a laugh as Naomi raises her eyebrows and asks, "So, how am I doing?"

"Oh yes, very casual." Emily nods trying to keep a straight face. "I'm extremely convinced."

"Also," Naomi breaks eye contact then. "I thought it might be easier to leave if I were already standing."

Emily senses an opportunity, feels the hesitation in Naomi's voice, and takes two purposeful steps towards her. "And is it?" Blue eyes, back on her in an instant. "Making it easier for you to leave?"

"We have to … catch an early train, and …" Naomi's thought falls away as Emily moves to slip her hands under Naomi's shirt, leans in to kiss the skin along the low cotton neckline as her thumbs graze Naomi's ribcage.

"And?" Emily is on the move again, finding her lips on Naomi's collarbone and then the area of her neck that is pulsing with nervousness or adrenaline or arousal or fuck if Emily really cares what's causing it. Just that she can feel it against her tongue is enough.

With a noticeable crack in her voice Naomi attempts to answer, "And, I don't recall you ever properly asking me … to stay."

Emily laughs lightly against the crook of Naomi's neck before stepping back, letting her hands fall until her fingers are hitched into the waist of Naomi's denim. "See, I thought my coming back downstairs with my tits still on display sort of made the invitation implied."

Naomi smiles at this, bites her lower lip when her eyes fall to their feet. Without much effort, Emily takes two steps backwards, pulling Naomi along with her.

Once they've kissed their way back to the front entryway, Emily shuffling in reverse while Naomi had finished the task of unbuttoning her shirt, Emily finally breaks away. She doesn't turn around again as she climbs the stairs. Doesn't really dare a look in Naomi's direction until they've closed themselves inside the room she used to call her own.

Naomi doesn't waste any time in removing Emily's shirt completely, letting it fall to the floor as she moves Emily backwards until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. Emily has never actually been pushed back, dominated against her own bed in her own surroundings, always finding herself in control when it came to women and shagging. And yet, when Naomi uses a bit of force to send her flying back against the cooled bed linens and towers over her, Emily thinks this is exactly the way she should have been shagging all along. She doesn't have time to think about removing Naomi's clothing, or her own for that matter, because she's too caught up in watching Naomi do all the work. Removing her tee shirt in one, fluid movement, and in the next her hands are working against the zipper of Emily's trousers. Her only contribution being to lift her hips off the mattress so that the trousers can be removed with more ease. And then Naomi is on her in an instant, and Emily remembers that the only thing better than watching a half-naked Naomi is probably touching a half-naked Naomi.

So while Naomi's mouth is hot against her neck, letting her hands roam down her sides and over her bare thighs, Emily works her hands quickly to unclasp Naomi's bra then pulls her fingers under the straps and gently slides them down until Naomi sits up to discard the thing entirely. And that's when Emily's body jerks up on instinct, her hands against Naomi's sides, her mouth on the darkened centre of one breast then slowly making her way to the other while Naomi threads her hands deep into Emily's hair. And she wouldn't mind if Naomi were always shirtless, perched in this position. The pins she'd used to keep her hair in place rip against her skull, but the painful sensation is a pleasant distraction to the shooting pangs between her thighs.

Emily's hands move down the length of Naomi's sides finally coming into contact with something rough and unwelcome. She pulls her mouth away from the skin between Naomi's breasts and demands a bit angrily, "Fucking take these off." She's working at the button and zipper of Naomi's denim, but to hurry things along, Naomi slides off of her, lies back against the bed and slips them off easily. And when Emily is confronted with the sight of Naomi in nothing but petite red-laced pants, laid out against the mattress all legs and bared abdomen, it registers that, actually, this position works well too.

Naomi is out of breath and it's audible in the quiet room and even over the sound of Emily's own blood pumping loudly in her ears. So it's infinitely more seductive when she says, "Come here." As if she can't even be bothered to move. As if she might be so incapacitated by pure want that she needs Emily to come _to_ her.

Emily moves quickly and not at all awkwardly, by some miracle remembering how to move about with a naked girl without it being all knees and elbows and clumsy positioning. And eventually finds herself with one leg between Naomi's, pulls it up tight so that the fabric of those red-laced pants is hot and moist against the skin of her thigh. While her leg moves rather purposefully, Emily is holding herself above Naomi so that she can see the way her face contorts in pleasure, her fingers scraping against the skin of Emily's back.

But then they aren't scraping, they're moving, fingertips sliding across her sides and stomach, and Emily knows there's only one place left for them to explore. So when Naomi's hand slips down and curls tentatively over the spot that has been throbbing mercilessly, Emily thrusts her hips encouragingly against the pressure and bites down onto Naomi's bottom lip a little harder than planned. Naomi doesn't take time to react to the biting before she's managed to flip them over again, her hand never losing contact with Emily's knickers. Naomi is on her neck, sucking against that fucking pulse point in a rhythm that matches the firm strokes of her fingers against the fabric of Emily's shorts, now completely soaked through.

"Naomi, fuck. _Fuck_!" It's the only thing looping through her mind and she's not sure if it's just instinctual profanity or an actual plea for Naomi to go ahead and fuck her already.

It doesn't matter the implication because either way, Naomi has used both hands to rid Emily of the boy shorts and then places a trail of kisses along an inner thigh. And just as Emily prepares herself to have every fantasy from the past four months brought to life, Naomi's face is hovering above her again.

"I've wanted to do this for way too long."

"I thought you said this was a bad idea."

Naomi's smile, the way her hair falls around her eyes, and the absolute honesty that washes over her face when she says, "I'm a fucking idiot," is the last concrete thing Emily remembers before losing her head completely.

She has a sense that Naomi has shifted again, is probably making her way down her stomach and sides, but when her mouth latches on and Emily feels the pressure of Naomi's tongue against her, it's complete sensory overload. Her entire body tenses at the initial touch, but trying to wrap her head around having Naomi Campbell between her legs is too large to handle, so she clenches her fists around the sheets and concentrates instead on not bucking her hips too wildly.

The word 'fuck' starts to fall out of her mouth at random intervals that become more rapid and more audible the closer Emily feels to orgasm, so that when she eventually comes, it's at an unfortunate decibel that she shouts, "Oh my _fucking_ fuck!"

Naomi doesn't move, keeps her mouth pressed against Emily, her hands moving slowly up and down the surface of her thighs as they shudder uncontrollably. The residual pulses of post-orgasm feel fucking phenomenal against the warm comfort of Naomi's mouth and Emily finds her fingers twirling lazily through blonde curls.

"I can't – I can't hear anything," Emily is saying, all ragged breaths, moving her jaw about as if trying to unclog her ears. "I think you've impaired my hearing."

Naomi falls against the pillow beside her, wipes a thumb along her bottom lip, but Emily's mouth is on her just as quickly, kissing away the rest of the moisture. Runs her tongue along Naomi's bottom lip, and just the idea of finding that taste on Naomi's mouth is enough to make her wet all over again.

Naomi is smiling when she separates their mouths by a small fraction. "Yeah, well, let's hope someone has impaired your sister's hearing as well."

Emily's eyes are wide when she asks in a strained whisper, "Was I – shit! – was that loud?"

Naomi kisses her with the kind of intent that is unmistakable and whispers against her ear, "Not nearly loud enough."

Emily can't move fast enough, straddling Naomi and threading their fingers together. Pulls both sets of hands above Naomi's head so that when she leans in and pulls an earlobe between her teeth, there is little Naomi can do other than whimper and squirm beneath her.

Emily works her way back down to Naomi's breasts, flicking her tongue against the raised surfaces there, but finds she has very little self-control when it comes to red-laced knickers. So she hitches two fingers under the elastic, runs them the length of Naomi's stomach without breaking eye contact. There is something darkening Naomi's eyes, seeping through until they are completely inked over, without a hint of blue. Her jaw is set, her gaze so intense, Emily thinks she might be seconds away from yelling out as her frustration bubbles over. Which is when she remembers that Naomi is impatient. Figures that no one ever makes her wait for anything. Figures a girl like Naomi – all determination and persistence – has never been left in want for too long. So when Emily pulls her fingers from the waistband and moves her other hand down the length of an inner thigh, stopping just as her fingertips reach the laced detail, she can't help but enjoy the frustrated exhale that is being forced from Naomi's lips.

She puts her mouth to a flattened stomach, lets her tongue and teeth just tease their way across the surface and feels Naomi grabbing fistfuls of her hair, feels her hips twitch beneath her. Still making her way along soft skin, Emily places her hand against Naomi, pushes the heel of her palm against the red fabric and circles her hand in a painfully slow rhythm.

Feels a searing pain against her shoulder as fingers dig into the skin there and drag downward, finally hears what she's been craving. The desperation is unmistakable when Naomi says, "Emily, _fucking please_."

It takes all of four seconds for the red lace to be discarded. Forgotten. A useless barrier. Another quick movement and she's right where she should be. Head buried into the heat and sweat of Naomi's neck, tasting salt against her tongue; and fingers slipping in and out, up and over the clit then back again. Naomi's touch is gentler now, still urgently grabbing against the skin of her back and shoulders and bum, but the violent scratching has ceased. Her mouth is back against Naomi's, feeling the quivering in her lips before the rest of her body starts to shudder in response. She feels a leg wrap around her own just as Naomi pulls away, presses her mouth to Emily's ear and staggers sharp breaths. When she comes she says, "Oh my god," and it's strained somewhere between a whisper and complete exhaustion, then collapses against the sheets. Arms, legs, hands, head, every extremity goes limp, breaking contact with Emily's skin.

Feeling suddenly very drunk with bourbon and oxytocin, Emily lets her own arms collapse so that her head rests on Naomi's chest, their legs still a tangled mess of sheets and sweat and skin. When her breathing regulates to the slowed inhales and exhales of Naomi beneath her, Emily feels her eyelids growing heavy. Drifts off to sleep with fingertips grazing softly against her shoulder blades.

* * *

Everything looks wrapped in grey in the way that it's neither light nor dark in early morning. The hour can't be much past dawn and a low fog still hangs between the buildings of downtown Bristol. Emily's eyes are to the window when she wakes, finds a sheet pulled up under her chin and remembers that the mattress is weighted beside her not from Effy's slight frame. A series of images flash through her mind of roaming fingers, writhing bodies slick with sweat, and suddenly the sheet feels stifling over her skin. She slides her legs off the bed, sits with her hands flat against the mattress, staring down at her feet that have always hung in mid-air above the floor boards. She turns to find Naomi, of course. Or Naomi's back, rather. And her blonde curls, splayed perfectly along the pillow. Slow and even breaths raise and lower the muscles in her back while Emily watches silently. Still asleep. Still safe.

Emily enters the sitting room to find Effy leant against one end of the sofa lighting a spliff, her long, bare legs stretched out from under her thinning sleep shirt. Wordlessly, Effy shifts to curl her legs up underneath her bum while Emily takes a seat beside her, mirrors her position and rests her head against the cushion. Effy drags long and effortlessly on the spliff before holding it out between them. Emily takes it, and the paper feels moist between her lips as she inhales and closes her eyes. The spliff has been burned nearly halfway through before any words enter the stillness of the sitting room.

"So you didn't tell her then? About your mum?" Effy eyes her behind a shifting curtain of smoke, which does nothing to lessen the intensity of her eyes in general.

Emily considers her answer for a beat. Never rushes into her responses where Effy is concerned. "Sort of. Not really." Time passes and Emily is unsure of its length before she hears herself asking, "How do I know if I can trust her with all of that? With any of it?"

"How do you know if you can trust anyone with anything?"

Emily pulls off the spliff again, the drugs feel good coursing through her. After everything igniting, every nerve ending ripping open and feeling exposed just hours before, it feels good to feel less. Emily thinks it would feel even better to feel nothing.

When she passes the joint back to Effy she asks, "Would you? Trust her, I mean. If you were me."

"Hard to say. I don't trust anyone. Apart from you." She raises her shoulder with the slightest effort, moves her head at an angle while considering then smirks, "Katie too, I suppose."

Emily finds it takes more effort than she'd imagined to smile in response. They are quiet again for several minutes, maybe hours. Times ceases to pass until a weighted sadness settles heavily onto Emily's chest and she struggles to say, "I fucking miss you."

The spliff has made its way into an ashtray on the table, and Emily has no idea how it got there. But she's glad that Effy's hands are free as she lies back against her and feels Effy's fingers working gently to remove the remaining pins from her mussed hair. The room goes quiet again, the pins making a light clicking sound as Effy drops them onto the table, one-by-one.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Going on holiday for the rest of this week, mates! Next week - we're headed back to London. And by 'we' I mean Naomi and Emily and maybe ... some others? Not sure, we'll see if anyone follows after them. Also, I'm requesting some help from all my lovely followers. I've been churning through tons of great fic on the site, but I'm looking for suggestions because I read obsessively and tend to finish them very quickly. So throw some at me, yeah? In return, I solemnly swear to have a really excellent extended chapter for you when I return next week. Yes?/Yes. Cheers!


	10. Chapter 10: Drop Back

**Author's Note:** I really went back and forth on whether to post this or not. It's about half the size of my usual chapters, and yet, I promised an update upon my return from holiday and I really hate to disappoint. So the conclusion I finally reached was - post this little chapter now, update again within a day or two. So there you have it. And here you go.

* * *

Naomi is behind schedule. And she doesn't even know what that feels like, can't even recognise that sense of panic until she's hurrying through the car park at Emirates and cursing furiously. The locker room is empty, the hurried footsteps of her boots echoing against the tiled floors and walls after she's slammed her belongings behind the metal door of her locker. Her heart rate is racing and irregular, and she finds it to be a terrible feeling. The organ knocking around uncomfortably within her chest walls. She's pushed out of the locker room into the damp and shadowy tunnel when she spots her, just a few metres from reaching the tunnel's opening onto the pitch. From behind, she's silhouetted, and so the idea of calling out seems far less intimidating than facing her head-on. Which is when Naomi hears herself doing just that, despite the irregular heartbeats. Despite the lack of moisture against her teeth and tongue.

Emily's pace slows when Naomi calls out, but she doesn't stop altogether until Naomi has reached her. They stand just before the mouth of the tunnel, just before reaching daylight, leaving Emily's face shadowed when she turns to face Naomi. And the look would be enough, but the shadows darkening Emily's face punctuate the conversation they haven't yet started.

"Hey." It's not a strong start, but anything more profound is fleeting once Naomi is confronted with those eyes.

"We're late."

The non-response is a bit like a quick jab to her stomach, but when Emily looks away and keeps her eyes on the pitch instead of Naomi, it's all she can do to work up another approach.

"Yeah," her eyes follow Emily's to the grass and the squad and the cloud-covered sky of mid-morning. "Look, is everything – I mean, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." The words are worthless against the flat tone of her voice. She doesn't look back before reiterating, "We really need to get out there."

It's when Emily turns her body away from their conversation that Naomi's hand raises quickly, lands somewhere along Emily's side, and the contact freezes her movement entirely. She doesn't move back to face Naomi. She doesn't press forward. She just, doesn't move at all.

"Emily –"

"Let's not fucking do this right now." Her tone is icy, feels like a cold gust rushes down the tunnel sending chills up Naomi's bared legs and arms.

"Do what?" she asks without actually wanting to hear the answer.

"This," Emily moves one hand between them, and the gesture looks irritated. "This post-fuck check-in that you're attempting." Her eyes flit back to meet Naomi's.

"Oh." Naomi's hand drops back to her side, and when Emily's glare is unrelenting the only thing left to say is, "Sorry."

Emily exhales in disgust when another voice comes bellowing towards them, echoing off the tunnel walls and low ceiling. "If it's not too much to ask – could you two manage to finish this fucking knitting circle when you're not on my time, and make your way out to the bloody pitch already?" Coach Farley is making his way towards them, clipboard in hand.

When Naomi's eyes dart down the tunnel, following the sound of his voice, she can hear Emily quietly exhaling '_Fucking great_,' and when she's turned back around, the redhead is jogging away.

* * *

Against her better judgement, against her loud and rational train-of-thought, Naomi calls Emily after practice. And then just before supper. And then after she's eaten. And then, just for good measure, she calls against after she's climbed into bed for the night. The calls have gone unanswered, but it's when she sends a text about going for a run in the morning that she finally gets a reply.

The text doesn't do much to soothe her nerves and reads simply: Can't tomorrow.

After waking up at two, three, and four a.m. Naomi finally gets out of bed at 5:00 and dresses for a run, resigned to carry-on with her day even if it doesn't include a fruit smoothie with Emily Fitch. Except her feet still carry her in the direction of Emily's flat, and it's with every ounce of self-will that she keeps running without lingering outside the iron gates in hopes that Emily will exit or enter at some point. And when she returns home to find her fridge empty of fruit aside from a single kiwi, the disappointment is unavoidable. So she makes egg whites instead. Stands leant against the cold, black granite of her countertops and eats in silence.

* * *

The first half of practice is spent reviewing game tape in preparation for their next match. The match Naomi will spend on the touchline. Even just watching the tapes and listening to each coach weigh in with strategies and predictions is making her legs jumpy, her hands twitching against the playbook on her lap. How she'll manage to sit through an entire match without being able to contribute is something she hasn't yet worked out.

Added to the list of things she hasn't yet worked out is the redhead sat three rows down, spinning a pen through her fingers. As if Naomi really needs her to draw attention to any part of her body. Particularly the fingers. When she's losing the battle against the visions her mind starts to replay of that night in Bristol, it's Liv's quick elbow jab to her ribs that brings her back. Of course she's been staring at Emily's profile instead of the projector screen. And of course she's lost track of just how much time has passed. And of course Liv took notice.

"Unsuccessful conquest on your mini holiday back to your mum's then?" Naomi is sat in Liv's flat, waiting for the cocktails Liv is preparing in her small kitchenette.

"Depends."

Liv's expression lightens, her eyes wide with possibility. "Depends on what?"

"On your definition of success."

"I would say my definition hinges on you getting your fingers fucking wet."

Naomi cringes, distorting her face at the crass remark. "You know, it's a shame you refuse to spend any quality time with Cook. You two really would get on like fucking aces."

"That tosser has a better chance of sucking his own cock than spending any 'quality' time with me." She hands Naomi a tall glass before settling into an over-stuffed chair across from her.

"Could have gone without that visual. Thanks."

Liv smiles into her glass as she takes a long sip. "So, fuck Cook. What about Bristol? What have you gone and cocked up this time?"

"I've not yet figured that out." Naomi rests the glass on her kneecap, the condensation immediately soaking through her denim. "Things were quite … successful while we were there," Naomi has trouble keeping a smile from her face when Liv reacts by tipping back her head and filling the small room with loud laughter. "But now she's completely fucking removed."

"I'm sorry, mate," Liv says once it's clear the mood has returned to sombre. "She's mad at you then?"

Naomi shakes her head slowly, casts her eyes down to her hands. "I think she's mad at herself." And she knows this is probably far worse for the both of them.

* * *

The next morning, she doesn't call or text. Just shows up at half-past six when the rain is a light drizzle and the clouds hang low between the city buildings. She reaches out, stretches her limbs against the iron rungs of the front gate, then jogs in place and waits. Cues up her running playlist and waits. Watches other early morning activity along the busy street, other occupants of the building leaving with steaming coffees, brief cases, and backpacks. When it's nearly seven and the rain is now a steady downpour, she starts off and doesn't look back.

For three days, she doesn't reach out. Doesn't push for contact. Doesn't approach her on the pitch or acknowledge her in the close confines of the locker room. Just before the opening minutes of the match, when the team is huddled around and getting those finals bursts of adrenaline from various teammates' pep talks, Naomi throws her hand into the pile of other hands at the centre of the circle.

And her hand is on Naomi's in a second. And brown eyes sear into blue across the loud and crowded huddle. And it's the first time since the tunnel they've made eye contact. And it's the first time since Katie's flat that she's felt Emily's touch. Liv is shouting and all the lads are echoing her shouts, and Naomi is mouthing along with them, though nothing registers other than deep brown and the burning heat on her skin from Emily's palm.

When the moment is over, Emily is gone and sprinting across the pitch, and Coach Farley is barking at Naomi from somewhere on the bench.

The match is fucking brutal, and Naomi is reminded over and over why losing her temper isn't an option. Feeling trapped behind the touchline while a game presses on is fucking bollocks. But then it happens. Emily is in a full-sprint breakaway, leaving her defender on the ground behind her, and Naomi is on her feet.

"Shit, she's gonna beat the keeper." Her voice is quiet, saying the words to no one really. The corners of her mouth tilt up just as Emily buries the ball in the net, sending the rest of the squad into hysterics.

It's the only goal of the entire match when the final whistle sounds and the entire team circles about Emily at the close, giving her all the credit she deserves. When she's gathered her things and changed from her kit, Naomi throws her duffel over her shoulder and closes her locker door before chancing a look across the room. Emily is unlacing her boots, still regaling the match's highlights with the girl who took Naomi's position for the night. She rests her hand against the cooled metal of the lockers and exhales taking the three steps in Emily's direction.

It's then that she sees it and her first instinct is to rush over, place kisses along the bared shoulder blade. But instead, she averts her eyes, knows that she can't will away the deep red scratches that stretch across Emily's skin. Looks down to her own fingertips, allowing the guilt to hit her before pushing it away and clearing her throat. Clearing the memory.

She's not close enough to intrude, just close enough to be within earshot when she says, "It's about time, Bristol."

Emily's face reads something between shock and amusement when she lets her mouth crook into a small smile and looks up to Naomi. "Thanks."

"Good match, mate," she acknowledges the other girl now standing awkwardly between whatever conversation Naomi and Emily seem to be having with their eyes. "Have a good night, lads." Emily watches as she takes two steps back, but then Naomi turns and exits, not foolish enough to hope Emily will follow after her.

* * *

When another week has passed without any contact, Naomi's calm, relinquished exterior starts to crack. She can feel it crumbling beneath her feet as she walks the pavement to Emily's flat. She hasn't stopped showing up every morning, but instead of hoping Emily will join her, she's become engrossed in trying to figure out when she's running at all, if not before practice. The second track of her running playlist is pounding loudly in her ears as she paces outside the iron gate. She's feeling irritable with each person passing in and out of the building until finally walking purposefully up the walk. Finds herself kicking the stone wall with the rubber toe of her trainer until someone exits the front door, leaving her just enough time to grab hold and slip inside. She's scaling the staircase three steps at a time so that when she's reached the doorstep, Naomi has managed to work herself up into a bit of an angered state. A few deep breaths later, she raps her fist against the door three times and waits. Holds her hands against the doorframe and leans in, trying to seek out movement, but there is nothing. So she knocks again. And then continues knocking at quickened intervals until she's practically pounding her fist against the wood, feeling heated and panicked and rather mental.

"Emily, just open up, yeah? I know you're not fucking sleeping. Just fucking –" Naomi jumps back, nearly sending herself flying down the staircase when the door swings open slowly.

"You know you sound fucking mad." And there is maybe one other person besides Emily that she'd rather not be seen in front of as weak or desperate, which is why it's instantly humiliating to see those blue eyes glancing up and down. "And that's really saying something, coming from me."

Effy positions herself in the doorway so that she's both leant against the doorframe and also leaving just enough space so that Naomi isn't clear on whether she plans to let her in or shut her out. Figures this is exactly the kind of uncertainty Effy often strikes in people.

"She won't come out of the bedroom." It's the only thing Effy says before turning back into the sitting room, leaving the door ajar.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Naomi says as if she's just managed to catch up with Effy's initial commentary. She takes two cautionary steps inside the flat, feeling immediately assaulted by Emily's things, Emily's space, Emily's scent.

"Got nothing to do with you." Effy's tone remains neutral so that Naomi can't tell if she's meant that to sound as spiteful as it feels.

So she just says, "Oh."

"Been like this for days. Just keeps holed up in there unless she's off to the pitch." Effy is wandering about looking for something, and Naomi is fairly confident it's nicotine.

Naomi can't seem to avert her eyes from the bedroom door. Just stands and stares and chews on the skin of her cheek until Effy is speaking again.

"Hey, close that will you?" She's stood by the terrace door and nods towards the front door. Naomi grabs for the door handle and quietly shuts the door then stands anxiously beside the sofa, returning her attention to the bedroom. "Come sit with me for a bit." Effy doesn't wait for her to accept the invitation before unlatching the glass door and stepping onto the terrace.

Naomi finds the irony in it: wearing her running clothes – her expensive, top-of-the-line trainers – and sat uselessly beside Effy, inhaling her second-hand smoke.

"We slept together." There's no prompt for this information, it just tumbles out of its own accord.

Effy's laughter is barely laughter at all, just slight movement in the rise and fall of her shoulders and tiny billows of smoke. "Yeah, I was there."

Naomi bows her head, rubs her finger against the rough texture of the stone bench on which they're sat. "Right, sorry."

"Do you always apologise this much?"

It's a valid question, and Naomi thinks the answer is no, but the way Effy's eyes are on her, she can't quite remember. So she shrugs instead, a response she tends to detest in other people.

"So, you've been here for a few days then?"

"A few."

"Just visiting your old haunts, or …"

Effy makes a peculiar face, takes another drag. "Emily told you I lived in London."

"She mentioned her best mate was from London. I gather that's you?"

"Your powers of deduction are rather precise."

"Thanks." Naomi looks behind them, strains to see through the buildings reflecting off the windows and into the flat. "So she – Emily asked you to come?"

"London didn't sit well with me. Too much stimulation, or too many options, or maybe just … too much."

It's not an answer, and it is. Emily reached out to Effy, asked her to come to London despite knowing it would be hard on her. It's an act of desperation. A big ask that Naomi realises goes far beyond any drunken shag. Even if it's the kind of shag that's so mind-blowing it's capable of changing the course of your entire life. Even then, this is more. This is bigger, and Naomi can feel it.

So when she looks over to Effy, it's not a question when she says, "It's her mum."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I can't help it - I love the angst. And these two just do it so well. Just wanted to say a huge HUGE thanks to all my lovely reviewers who have been so faithful in continuously dropping by to say amazing things about this little project. For the record, I think you're all fooking ace!


	11. Chapter 11: The Weight of the Pass

**Author's Note:** Another shorter update - don't be cross. Just think of it as more like, Chapter 10: the extended cut. The reviews from last chapter are so mixed and made me laugh quite a bit - some of you all "why god, why?" and others chanting "we love angst! we love angst!" Either way, I fucking love it. You lads make this experience so much more fun. Alright, let's get to it, yeah?

* * *

Effy responds by standing and approaching the far side of the terrace. Watches the street below for a moment before sending the stub of her fag over the edge. She takes a seat on the low terrace wall facing Naomi, and crosses her legs.

"Is it bad? I mean, is it getting worse?" When Effy's silence continues, Naomi can't hide her frustration, hands fidgeting the nylon of her shorts, when she adds, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

It's another few beats before Effy says at a measured pace, "If Emily wanted you to know about Jenna, she'd have told you, Naomi."

"She did tell me!" Composure crumbling around her. "And then she just … fucked off." Naomi's eyes are on the glossy window panes again. Like the bedroom door just a few metres off may as well be entire city blocks away for as much distance that she feels.

"So then, she told you what she was ready to tell you." Effy places a new fag between her lips, clicks her lighter a few times before it takes. "Even if it's not everything you want to know."

"I want to know that she's alright! I want her to know that I'm here for her!" And she doesn't even care that her voice has taken on that strained pitch of desperation.

Effy shrugs, remaining infuriatingly calm. "Then tell her."

"Tell her? She's barely looked at me since we …" Naomi shakes her head, pinches her eyes shut tight, and bows her head. Clenches her fingers around the rough edges of the bench. She doesn't want to think about the morning after. Would prefer to remember the night of, or the hours preceding, with Emily giving in to every urge and temptation they'd been fighting against for months.

But the memories are tethered so that she can no longer remember the soft skin of Emily's most delicate parts without also remembering the cold distance she'd felt the following morning. The train ride had stretched on painfully and remained almost entirely silent. It hadn't taken Naomi longer than a few minutes to recognise the change in Emily's demeanour. She appeared closed in on herself based on body language alone, but it wasn't the lack of physical contact that had Naomi's stomach swimming in sick. It was her face drained of colour. It was her down-turned mouth. It was the eyes she'd seen in her mum's sitting room. The ones that looked lifeless and empty. So it was maybe more convenient that Emily had spent the entire ride staring out the window instead of in the direction of Naomi.

"I should go," she finally says when the hollowing at the pit of her stomach starts to rise up and feel like acid in her throat.

Effy follows behind to the front door, Naomi keeping her eyes to the floor. She doesn't want to see the orange and blue tiled backsplash. Doesn't want to remember where the juice glasses are kept in the far right cupboard. Thinks if she knows Emily's green jumper is thrown over the back of the sofa, she won't be able to resist reaching out to feel its texture between her thumb and forefinger. So once she's back in the corridor, she doesn't let herself look back inside. Turns her head to the side when addressing Effy again.

"Thanks for not reporting me to the authorities, or anything."

Effy is leant up against the doorframe again. As if never trusting her long, thin legs to carry the weight of herself, Effy always seems to be draped along different surfaces.

"Emily came for me when I was at my worst. And for awhile, I didn't even know she was there because I had stopped letting anyone near me."

Naomi dares a look back up to meet Effy's eyes. They are saying something more, telling her things she'll never say out loud.

Her words are spoken at a cadence that make the tense muscles in Naomi's shoulders fall at the sound of it. "It's easier to tell someone you're there for them when they're stood right in front of you, don't you think?"

* * *

It's another four days when Naomi finds herself outside Emily's flat again, and she wonders for a brief moment if she should be concerned with one of Emily's neighbours becoming suspicious of stalking. Because it's not as if she's actually been seen _with_ Emily for almost three weeks. She's not dressed for a run this time because when sleep evaded her at half-past four, she figured it was as good a time as any to get her exercise. But now the sun, hidden away behind clouds and city fog, is on its decline. The lighter afternoon sky darkening in gradient with each passing hour.

Any interactions on the practice pitch had been equally non-existent as they had been before Effy's visit. Even though, Naomi had eventually admitted to herself, she'd held onto a sliver of hope that something might have changed after their chat on the terrace. But, when nothing seemed to be shifting between them, it was changes in herself that Naomi began noticing. She no longer pretended to have a blind spot in Emily's exact shape and size, allowing herself to watch openly as the petite redhead performed on the pitch. As she interacted with the other lads around her. Watched as the scabbed-over scratches along her left shoulder healed into three, light pink marks. And she both curses and laughs at herself when she turns up at Camden Passage one Saturday, fondling the over-priced antiques that clutter Emily's space.

Effy's words continue to play over and over, and when she lies down to sleep at night, it's the only sound she can hear. So that when she's squaring herself between Emily's building and the pavement across the street, she feels a very certain determination in what she's about to do. It takes a bit of work to get it just right, the perfectionist in her never really satisfied. But as she takes one last look between the building and her spot along the pavement, she nods once to herself and heads off.

* * *

Emily pulls open the bedroom door, camera in hand, and saunters over to the bay windows. Her hair is pulled up messily, the way a ponytail might look having been slept on for a few hours. She crosses her arms along her stomach, sighs into the window panes. Into the clouds that cover the greying sky. Rain is always imminent, it seems. She knows she shouldn't enjoy it the way she does. Shouldn't let the dark skies and damp weather appease her mood. But it feels good, all the grey and damp. The way sad songs always seem so comforting when you're in the thick of depression.

Emily looks over to the empty sofa and thinks of Effy. Almost wishes she'd refrained from asking her to come because now that she's gone back to Bristol, her fleeting presence only makes the flat seem emptier in contrast.

* * *

"Sure you want to push this one away?" Effy either spoke in code or she got right to the fucking point.

Emily is sat on her floor, her legs sprawled out, sifting through the most recent set of photos she'd developed and organising them into her album. She doesn't look up to respond. "I have to. I can't let her in."

"You _won't _let her in. There's a difference."

"It's better if she hates me," Emily says quietly, not really expecting Effy to believe it because she hasn't even convince herself. Not really.

"Well, that plan seems to be working out pretty well for you."

Emily looks up to see Effy challenging her with raised eyebrows and a smirk that reiterates the retort. It wasn't the loud pounding that had woken her. It was the sound of Naomi's voice on the other side of the bedroom door. It was the sound of Naomi moving about in her flat that had quickened her pulse, making sleep impossible.

"It's not fair to her. If I care about her, why would I put her through all the shit that comprises my life at the moment?"

"Is that what you do all day – sit in your bed and rationalise this until you can live with some warped version of what actually happened?"

"She's going to die, Eff." Emily stops fidgeting with the prints in front of her, keeps her head down and her eyes on her kneecaps.

Everything stays so still. It's not the first time she's thought it. Not even the first time she's said it out loud. But when Effy's voice breaks through the stillness and slices through her quiet conscious, it's the first time anyone's dared confirm it.

"Yes."

And everything feels like it's breaking around her. All shattered glass and splintered wood. Her skin splitting wide open, her lungs contracting and unable to fill with air. So when she sees dark spots on her shorts, it takes a minute to realise her eyes have spilled over with tears. An hour later, she's moved to lay with Effy on the small sofa. Emily's head against her chest, wrapped up in slender, scarred arms.

* * *

She glances back towards the open kitchen, determining the time from the digital microwave clock, before unlatching the terrace door and stepping up and out. The air is moist as the humidity settles onto her bare feet and hands, and the stone tiling of the terrace feels damp against her toes. Pulling the tripod away from the wall, she aligns the rubber feet with the small pieces of black tape and works to attach the camera on top. Her eyes barely have time to process what she's seen when the camera slides into focus, because Emily is pulling away from the tiny viewing window. Her jaw sets, a hard swallow working its way down her throat before she moves back in towards the camera. With a shaky hand she grabs hold of a tripod leg and looks again. The message is unmistakable though Emily fights the efforts her mind is making to process it.

The poster is small and white, tied with twine to the fencing that runs along the pavement there. The letters are scrawled in thick, black ink and written without careful penmanship. For someone with such high neuroses, she really does have shit handwriting. It could have been written as a passing thought. Could have been done in haste for how poorly it's written. And yet, four words have never felt so weighted.

* * *

Naomi is hunched over the kitchen counter. The granite feels cold on her elbows through the knit fabric of her cardigan. She's counting the narrow white tiles on the wall between the counter and the cabinetry when the kettle whistles. The sky has been gradually darkening, making the galley kitchen feel gloomy and cold. Cold like the stainless steel of her appliances and the jet black cabinetry. There's nothing warm in here, she thinks, pulling the sides of her cardigan around herself tightly. Making a cup of tea sound even cosier than usual. She wraps her hands around the porcelain cup while the steaming hot water begins to darken and brew. Looks to the large window at the far end of the kitchen, watching angry raindrops pelt the glass. She's tucked an old paperback under her arm while grasping the teacup with both hands when a bang against her front door nearly sends the entire operation crashing to the floor. She manages to carry the cuppa and the paperback to the wooden chest in her sitting room, setting them down before the banging resumes.

"Yeah – coming, _chrissake_," she's saying as her hands work the locks on the door. "Oh."

"What the actual _fuck_, Naomi?!"

The first thing she notices is that Emily is soaked through, all her clothes a darker hue and dripping onto the wood floors as she pushes past Naomi and into the flat. Then she sees the small, white poster clutched in Emily's hand. Emily is glaring at her, finally bothering to acknowledge her existence, though not exactly in the context Naomi would have preferred. She meets the glare head-on and sees something flickering behind those dark eyes, giving them a small spark of life. It's not what she ever wanted to see in Emily and yet, even anger is better than nothing at all.

"You're shivering." And the small shakes, ricocheting through her shoulders and arms, make Emily look so small, it's rather instinctual when Naomi takes a step towards her. "Did you walk here in ... in this weather?"

"I'm fucking fine," she snaps, stepping back away. Though the tense jaw twitches to keep her voice from shaking don't go unnoticed. "What the fuck is this all about?" She thrusts the poster between them.

"I just – you wouldn't talk to me." Naomi's voice is quiet. Too quiet, she thinks. Doesn't like the feeling of helplessness draped over her that seems to come so often in Emily's presence.

"I've been working on that project for _months_, Naomi, and you think you can just waltz in –"

"No, I didn't think –"

"No! You didn't think, and now you've ruined it with your selfish fucking agenda!"

Any feelings of defenceless fall away when memories of abandonment and loneliness start to erupt from somewhere deep and covered. Memories that she no longer recognises, that she managed to bury years ago, only to have Emily come along and kick up the earth, exposing them all over again. And the result is a surge of uninhibited rage.

"_My_ selfish agenda?! Are you fucking _joking_? I'm not the one who fucked off, am I? I'm not the one who went running in the opposite direction when things got too fucking honest." She can see it in Emily's expression – that she hadn't expected this reaction. That she hadn't planned on having it out quite like this. And because Naomi isn't really capable of stopping the momentum anyway, she presses on. "You're the one making decisions for both of us! You didn't ever stop to consider that I might actually need you too. You didn't ever stop to consider me at all because you're too busy thinking of yourself!"

The tears are unstoppable, her emotions taking control of the waver in her voice, the way it's pitched too high. And she can't be sure if the sheen on Emily's face is still from the rain or if she's crying too, but she's not looking at her anymore anyway. Emily is focused in on something just over Naomi's right shoulder, her brow creased in a way that's replaced anger with confusion. She's also not responded, not shot back in angered defence of her actions like Naomi had expected. The quiet stretches on, broken only by short, shaky breaths and small sniffles.

Emily doesn't look at her when she says in a much softer voice, "What's that?" The kind of softness Naomi has always loved in her voice. The way it can be both velvet and rasp. The way Emily has always been a lovely contradiction of things.

Though it's unnecessary, though she knows exactly what's got Emily's attention, she still turns towards the mantle. And there it sits – its dark, weathered strap hanging off the mantle's edge and contrasting the stark white brick of her fireplace. The camera looks out-of-place in Naomi's flat, but she smiles at its awkward positioning amidst all her clean, empty surfaces.

"It's a," she clears her throat, trying to work it back down to its normal pitch, "it's a Leica? They called it a Compur, or something." When she looks back in Emily's direction, her brown eyes have changed again, softening into something Naomi can finally recognise. They're pooled in tears that slip down to her chin as Emily chews at the inside of her lip. "I got it for you," she shrugs.

Emily is in full sobs when she drops the sign to the floor and lets her shoulders hunch forward. She's shaking uncontrollably. In a way that looks relinquished. In a way that she's given in to something, to everything. And Naomi is crying too, swallowing back the bigger sobs, because she knows this is more about Emily and less about _her_ _and_ Emily. And she doesn't move towards her, just lets the emotion sort of spill out between them and linger there, untouched. But when Emily looks up, their eyes meeting all blurred and watery, Naomi watches her shoulders heave just once. And Emily turns up her hands, presses her lips tightly together. And Naomi can see in the gesture everything Emily can't say.

She doesn't want to tell her: _This is me, broken. __This is everything I can't bear to let show – all the ugly parts and the ones hidden away. _But it's in the silence, it's in the things that Emily doesn't say, that Naomi knows she's finally hearing her for the first time. So she doesn't hesitate in stepping forward and reaching out, wraps her arms tightly until Emily is crashed against her chest, her sobs shaking their contact. Her clothes soaking through into Naomi's jumper and cotton shirt.

Naomi rests her chin atop a head of damp red hair, feels Emily's sobs lessening against her chest, her hands clinging lightly to the sides of Naomi's shirt. When Naomi moves to place her head beside Emily's, she feels cold hair and skin against her cheek. She looks down to the discarded poster, it's message now just a useless smear of black ink and rainwater. So she finds her voice and says, "I'm not leaving you." She whispers it again and again.

* * *

**One more thing:** For those of you questioning the Return of Cook, we are not even close to being done with that fookin' kid. So keep your vagina on. Cook is coming back in a big way. As one would expect from the likes of James Cook.


	12. Chapter 12: Close In On

Naomi wakes up alone which, at first, doesn't strike her as unordinary until she remembers that she didn't fall asleep that way. And the memory of it is the impetus for her throwing back the bed covers and stalking quickly into the sitting room. Which is where she finds Emily. She must be wearing an expression of angry confusion for how angry and confused she feels, but her emotions stand little chance against the sight of Emily curled into the far corner of her sofa, slowly turning the camera over in her hands, and wearing a sleepy smile.

"Hey," is all Emily says when she looks up. And it's such a little, insignificant word except for the way it sounds when saturated in Emily's scratchy, morning voice. And the immediate effect is that Naomi reaches for the arm of the sofa and carefully brings herself to a sitting position before her legs give out entirely.

"Do you like it?"

"It's way, _way_ too much, Naomi." She says it the way people's voices lilt when they're trying to refuse a gift, but she can't take her eyes off the camera.

"It's not," Naomi counters lightly. "I think the guy didn't know what he had anyway. It was terribly under-priced." Which isn't true, but she thinks it sounds convincing enough when she says it.

"It's gorgeous."

And Emily is still looking adoringly at the thing until Naomi says, "Thing is, you can't take it home."

It comes out as more of a laugh when Emily looks up at her and asks, "What?"

"I like it," Naomi shrugs and then, "I like how it looks here. It looks good, you know, in my flat." And it's pretty clear by the look she gets in return that Emily's twigged they're no longer referencing the camera.

"I don't think you quite understand the act of gift-giving." There's an arch to her brow that's unnaturally attractive for such an insignificant gesture.

"Oh, it's all yours. Just so long as it never leaves the premises."

The way Emily moistens her lips and nods, then tilts her head a bit and narrows her eyes, makes it nearly impossible for Naomi to sit still. "And, what if I want to look at it really late at night?"

Clearing her throat is meant to sustain a light and casual tone, but it's all she can do to keep her voice from shaking when Naomi answers, "Well then, I guess you'd have to be here … really late at night."

Probably because she's moved to place the camera onto the wooden chest in front of them, and probably because she's not really expecting a response anyway, the next thing Emily asks doesn't even sound remotely like a question.

"And what if I want to see it first thing in the morning?"

She's moved from sitting to kneeling and is slowly making her way across the cushions that way. Just these tiny little shifts on her knees, closing the distance between them, and it's by far the sexiest thing that has ever happened on Naomi's sofa. Up until that point.

Emily's hair is left down and has a wave to it, something that Naomi figures is probably a result of not blow-drying it after the shower. So it's just falling in these really lovely tendrils around Emily's face while the sun plays at its colouring from the window. And that's when she remembers that Emily showered the night before. Which is when she remembers the night before.

* * *

It hadn't taken much effort to convince Emily to stay the night. Though Naomi has attributed that more to sheer exhaustion than anything else. Because that's what she saw in Emily's face and limbs when they'd finally broken their soggy and tearful embrace. She was tired. Deflated. Reduced to a shell of the girl who came barrelling through the flat just an hour before. Naomi had directed her to shower while she pulled out pyjamas and made sleeping arrangements. She'd been tucking a sheet around the sofa cushions when Emily emerged from the bedroom wearing Naomi's clothes and biting her bottom lip.

They'd argued about it for maybe three minutes when Emily finally said, "Naomi, I'm too tired to fight about this. Just come to bed already." And actually, as it turns out, the phrase 'come to bed' as directed by Emily Fitch is every bit as impossible to resist as it sounds.

Naomi had laid awake, trying to situate herself on the left side of the bed, closest to the windows. She was certain Emily's breathing had finally evened out, indicating she'd fallen asleep, but then she was reaching her hand back, searching the blankets until she'd grabbed hold of Naomi's wrist. She pulled it around herself until both their hands were tucked tightly just below her chin. And it was then that she'd really fallen asleep. And it was then that Naomi realised, her front flush against Emily's back, she probably wouldn't get much sleep at all.

* * *

It occurs to her when Emily's hands are pushing at the hem of her sleep shirt, exposing her entire abdomen to warm morning sun, and kissing each ridge of her ribcage, that they haven't even properly kissed in nearly a month. And, for that matter, that they haven't _ever_ kissed sober, let alone this. But Emily seems to have a one-tracked mission because she doesn't linger very long before her hands are pulling at Naomi's pants and knickers. They're sliding off Naomi's bum and thighs slowly. Everything feels like it's moving really slowly. Like Emily's hands and arms could be underwater.

"Emily." It's more a breath than anything, and the only response she gets is for Emily to shake her head. As if she thought maybe Naomi was about to object to something. And maybe she was. She can't be sure because Emily's head is moving from side to side. Slowly. Everything so fucking deliberate. Fingertips on her skin. Swaying cherry red hair. Even Emily's smile is lazy, her eyelids heavy. The throbbing between her legs she might have felt at some point is now just pain. Pain that climaxes beyond unbearable as she watches Emily lower herself at a pace that borders on inhumane.

"Fucking, _Christ_." And while she can't be sure that he has anything to do with this, she's rather certain that the things Emily is doing with her tongue is nothing short of a religious experience.

She's grabbing at everything within reach to avoid grabbing at Emily because, although it's now hidden beneath the cotton of her tee shirt, she knows Emily's shoulder blade bears proof of the damage she's capable of inflicting. So she pulls at the sofa's fabric. At the skin of her thighs. At her own hair as her head tips back against the arm rest. Emily's rhythm is unrelenting. Constant but not quickened. Her hips start to move on their own as Emily's hands fight to hold her in place. But the jolting and rocking is out of her control so Emily finally gives in, rapidly flicking the spot that is pulsing madly, turning Naomi's moans into whimpers. She thinks she's close to losing her shit entirely because her knuckles are white and her lip is sweating and her thighs are trembling, which is the exact moment Emily's chosen to curl two fingers up inside. And she doesn't even have to search around for it. Just finds the spot straight away, starts working her fingers in a motion that is counter to what she's still doing with her mouth. It doesn't even seem fucking possible. Like simultaneously patting your head and rubbing your stomach. The coordination is uncanny.

She's crying and it's unavoidable. The release is too big. It's too much to be expressed in just one emotion. So Naomi chooses all of them. Except anger. She figures, after this, she'll never actually be able to associate anger with Emily ever again. And Emily knows it too, the way she on top of her, holding her, pressing her nose into the skin of Naomi's neck. The way she's kissing the salty skin there. Emily knows what she's done. What she probably intended to do all along. Which is ruin her, obviously. It's not a secret between them now, that Naomi is completely fucking ruined.

Her eyelashes are damp, and her temples, where the tears just pinched out and rolled down. So Emily is kissing her there too, pushing the hair off her face that has stuck there in sweat. Or tears. Or both.

It hits her then. She doesn't even have to open her eyes to know it's happened. And, she notes, that actually, it feels nothing at all like falling. It's absurd, of course, that it could have happened so quickly. That it could have happened with a girl who she's slept with only twice. With a girl who's just recently shut her out for weeks on end. But when she plucks up the courage to open her eyes, sees Emily's face just inches from her own, it's a miracle the words don't just come tumbling out. She can't say them out loud, obviously. Can barely form them into cohesive thought within her head, for chrissake. So she says instead, "Don't go away again." Which is as close to the actual sentiment as she can get at this point.

"I won't." Emily smiles and then kisses her. Properly.

* * *

An hour later, or maybe two, they're back in bed and Emily is panting, which Naomi takes as a good sign. Though, if she's being completely honest with herself, she also feels a bit rubbish that she wasn't able to properly return the favour of Emily's antics on the sofa. The thought then occurs to her that shagging Emily could so easily turn into a competitive battle of orgasm, if their personalities on the pitch are any indication. She also considers this not really being a bad thing at all. When she crawls up the mattress to collapse beside her, Emily is laughing a bit while trying to normalise her breaths again.

"What's so funny?" Naomi's arm is draped along Emily's stomach, her fingers absently playing with a gold charm hanging around Emily's neck.

Emily's head lolls to face her. "As it turns out, we're _both_ fucking idiots."

"I'll drink to that."

"I'm sorry." She says it quickly, the smile slipping from her face so Naomi just as quickly kisses the tip of her nose. And maybe it's about the fight or the distance or the morning after or the whole fucking mess of a thing, but it doesn't really matter because Naomi won't let it.

With a quick kiss she says, "Forgotten." And then, "Thirsty?" She's up in a second, untangling her limbs from the sheets, from Emily.

"Starving, actually. What time is it anyway?"

Naomi is answering, "No idea," as she makes her way around the bed and towards the desk where she's left her mobile. "What are you in the mood for?" Searching through any missed activity on her phone, she's met with silence. "Em?" When she spins around, it's apparent by the way Emily is propped up on her elbows, smiling. By the way the lust is so fucking transparent in her eyes.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

And though the thought of being ogled by Emily, while both naked and sticky with sweat, is making things damp between her thighs, she answers with a smirk, "Enjoying yourself, are you?"

"Did I mention I'm a fucking idiot, by the way?"

"It's been noted. Oh, and it's nearly one."

"Shit! One?"

"Yeah, I think it's safe to say we've managed to fuck the morning away." Naomi grins, finding herself to be rather clever, but Emily still looks a bit panicky, so she drops the smirk and asks, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Even though Naomi moves back into bed anyway. "Effy and I sort of have this thing – this phone date or whatever – every Saturday at ten, and I – well, I sort of rushed out so quickly last night, I forgot my mobile."

"In a rush, ey?"

It's not exactly embarrassment but something equally endearing when Emily's eyes fall, her lips pressing together when she nods before chancing a look back up at Naomi from underneath impossibly long eyelashes.

"You can use mine if you like." She dangles the phone between her fingers just above Emily's breasts but as she reaches for it, pulls it back and kisses her instead. When Emily's hands are good and tangled in her hair, her body turning to press more of their skin together, Naomi pulls away. Eyes her carefully when she says, "Though, for the record, I'd prefer if you weren't phone dating anyone besides me."

Emily laughs really loudly and it's just the best fucking sound, especially when she's so close and when the flat it so quiet. Even the street noise can't penetrate the walls and windows and it's just peaceful quiet everywhere, and Emily laughing.

"Save for Effy," she kisses Naomi's jawline and takes the phone from her, "you've got a deal."

She hadn't really considered the vulnerability of it all – being naked, in bed with the girl you love, and asking her to be _exclusive_, or whatever – but when Emily answers, Naomi exhales and thinks it's probably from relief. And then Emily has moved away from her, though not far since they are still touching in nearly four different places of contact. She starts dialling a number, waits for a beat before saying, "Katie."

There's a bit of noise from the other end that sounds vaguely like shouting, which is when Emily sighs, cutting in.

"Katie – fucking – I'm _sorry_. I don't even have my mobile, which is why, you might have noticed, I'm calling from a random number." There's another pause and then a smile creeping over her lips when she looks over at Naomi and says her name. Trails a few fingers up her neck and into her hair.

The sound that erupts through the phone's tiny speakers is so loud and so shrill, Emily is actually holding it in the air above them until Katie – and what Naomi imagines to also possibly be Effy – manages to calm to a dull roar. Naomi's eyes widen as she watches Emily brighten to a particularly adorable shade of pink.

"Look, I'm going to get off, but I'll – the _phone_, Katie! I'm going to get off the _phone_. Fucking hell." Emily's moved to place her free hand over her face entirely. "Just tell Effy I'll call her later, yeah?"

She's discarded the mobile seconds later, turns to face Naomi again with apologetic eyes when she says, "It appears you have a fan club."

"That right?"

They lay in bed facing each other. Like a couple of teenage girls having a sleepover, and they're smiling so stupidly at each other they may as well be teenagers.

"Yes. They both seem to have gone a little mad over you, actually." Emily goes about closing any gaps between them, slides her fingers back into soft, blonde hair. "And, they haven't even seen you naked."

* * *

Emily is pushed up against the front door, her left hand clutching its handle the only indication that she was, in fact, about to leave Naomi's flat. She's got lips pressed to the skin below her ear and two hands beneath her shirt, holding firm to her stomach. Naomi, as it turns out, is rather insatiable. And as for her own will-power or restraint, well it's gone fuck-all as well. It's the moment that's inevitable after you've gone ahead and shagged a person you really fancy for a solid twelve hours. You've got to separate, eventually. You've got to come up for food and air and just general social interaction, at some point. Except that in that moment, it all seems like the worst possible prospect imaginable.

"I'm gonna go," she says with very little conviction. Which does nothing to stop Naomi from breathing hot against Emily's skin, to stop her thumbs from fanning patterns along her stomach. "Naomi."

"Yeah?" And she may as well be a hundred kilometres away by the look in her eyes when she smiles up, eyes heavily lidded under those thick lashes that Emily immediately wants to kiss all over again.

"_Christ_, you're not going to make this easy, are you?"

Naomi smiles something deviant, confirming Emily's suspicions of foul play. So what else can she do but throw her head back against the door and exhale audibly, as if having Naomi Campbell holding you captive as her sex slave is something far worse than wind sprints in the pissing rain.

"If I don't get sleep, I'll be a fucking waste tomorrow, get kicked off the squad for poor performance, and be gone forever," Emily threatens, failing miserably to keep the smirk off her face.

Naomi drops her head, looks back up with something like disappointment when she says, "You know, if this has any chance of working, Bristol, we're going to have to build up your stamina."

It's a low, fucking blow, challenging her sexual prowess with an appeal to her competitive nature. So Emily just laughs and pushes Naomi off her with both hands. And creating distance might have been more successful had Naomi not pre-emptively curled her fingers into the waistband of Emily's trousers. But, as it happens, the exertion of lightly shoving Naomi results instead with Emily crashing back against her as they both stumble a bit, backwards and forwards. Lips and laughter. Push and pull.

She agrees to stay, with a bit more persuasive fondling, but only after Naomi promises to follow-through on three major conditions:

Retrieving her mobile and fresh clothes from Emily's flat.

Food. Loads of it.

And sleep. This particular bit had been debated fiercely, though Emily had finally settled on needing only six hours total. Upon concession, Naomi had nodded proudly, as if she'd clearly won on this condition. As if she'd been doing the math in her head, factoring in how many shags were still manageable within those time constraints. And probably, since it was Naomi, that's exactly what she'd done.

* * *

The first time they shag in Emily's flat it starts with an argument. Nothing about it feels shocking or scary, and in fact, something about fighting with Naomi feels almost instinctual. They'd argued plenty as friends. And, after all, that's what they still were anyway. Friends. Granted, they'd become the sort of friends who preferred naked romps and screaming orgasms to getting coffee or going to the cinema. Still, friends nonetheless.

It starts as something said in passing. Like so many of their disagreements, there's not much actual weight at the root of it.

"I don't want to do that, Naomi." She's chopping vegetables, doesn't bother looking up when she says it.

Naomi is sat in Emily's flat, on her sofa. And when Emily looks up from the kitchen and remembers she's wearing _that_ shirt and those _fucking_ specs, that her hair's pulled up in _that_ way, her anger swells all over again that Naomi can make things so unfair just by being simply being _Naomi_.

"It just makes sense. Makes things, you know, easier."

It's about their _relationship_ – though they've thankfully refrained from calling it anything of the sort. Because they might be two girls shagging and all, but Emily's always hated the way lesbians are so quick to label every_ sodding _thing. She also hates keeping secrets surrounding who she is, or who she's fucking, for that matter. Or even omissions that indicate as such. So she doesn't like that the suggestion to 'keep things quiet' about her and Naomi, regardless of what they are. It feels so eerily similar to a life she lived at seventeen.

"Who fucking cares anyway?" And Emily is almost certain it's not the first time in her life she's said this very thing.

"I just don't know why it matters if the lads know or not!"

"Oh my _god_!" she half-screams, half-growls. "That's _literally_ the whole fucking point I'm trying to make!" And she thinks, although it hasn't happened since primary school, that based on her inflection when she's good and angry, she could still easily be mistaken for Katie.

And now they're just batting two sides of a losing argument back and forth, hoping eventually something will stick. But it's useless and futile and actually really fucking tiring, which is why it makes so much more sense to let Naomi snake around her waist from behind, throw her head back and wait for the trail of kisses along her neck and shoulder. At some point hours later, when Naomi is the one tending to the sautéing vegetables on the stovetop while Emily lies naked on the sofa, she twirls a strand of hair through her fingers and narrows her eyes towards the kitchen.

"This doesn't mean you've won or anything."

"Sorry?" And it's not the kind of response that warrants an answer, especially not coupled with that smug, fucking grin Naomi is wearing.

But Emily is hoisted up on her elbows just the same, which she figures to be her best defensive position, given that she's laid starkers and all. "I'm just saying, don't plan on always settling arguments in this fashion."

Leant over the butcher block island in a blue sleep shirt that barely covers her knickers, Naomi pulls her bottom lip between her teeth before answering, "Yeah. Alright."

Later, in bed, Emily is half-wrapped up in Naomi's arms and legs, half sprawled along the cool sheets that haven't absorbed body heat. She lets her eyelids fall, gives in to exhaustion. Naomi's hand against her back, tracing the curve of her shoulder blade, a soothing sleep aide.

"I've told Liv," she says into the silence. And it takes a minute to remember why Naomi would be saying it in the first place.

But when Emily smiles a moment later, whispers, 'Okay,' against the skin of Naomi's shoulder, she feels something between them relax.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Bit of a wait on this one, yeah? Sorry about that! Hope a bit of smut is enough to tie you over until the next installment. The reviews have been lovely as always, and I continue to enjoy them - each and every one. So thanks! In particular a great guest review from TallyHo - can't respond directly but wanted to say thanks.


	13. Chapter 13: Substitutions

Emily had spotted her first, and of _course_ it had happened that way. Because there was a time when the only thing other than bloody football that occupied her sister's train of thought was tits and fanny. They'd managed their way into some dank, dark pub that was total shit, but when every street in every borough is something unfamiliar – like that first month in Bristol – ending up someplace unsavoury is bound to happen at least once. Emily had taken right to it, which hadn't been a surprise since most things that made Katie's skin crawl tended to draw her sister in consistently. And dive bars to Emily – well, moth to flame, and all that. So, fuck it, whatever – they sidled up to the bar and Katie tried not to imagine how many venereal diseases she could probably contract from just the bar stool alone.

It was a shadowy, smoky little dive, and actually, in retrospect, exactly the type of haunt appropriate for a first meeting with Effy Stonem. She wasn't more than a waif in dark rags, draped effortlessly along a stool in the corner, with her eyes done up to look like she'd been on a heroin bender – all dark and sallow. And, fucking hell, maybe she had been. Emily was intrigued immediately either way. On the fucking prowl, as she tended to be in those days, despite Katie's exhaustive and audible scoffing at her efforts.

"Emily, fuck's _sake_, this place is shit. Can't we at least go to a proper establishment with more than, like, two fucking patrons and, I don't know, less filth on every surface?" Katie had made a point to wipe her hand along the bar counter's edge. Then wished she hadn't when her palm was left sticky. "Ugh, I don't even want to ask what wines they pour."

Emily wasn't listening – her eyes trained to the dark corner where smoke loomed in tall wafts from Effy's cigarette, left unattended in the glass tray on the bar. Like a fucking prop. Katie was inattentive and equally uninterested. Concentrated only on consumption of alcohol – some shit pinot grigio that tasted of sweetened, soapy pears – for a crutch to get her through this. Because if she was stuck trailing about while Emily tried to pull, at the very least she was going to do so completely fucking pissed.

That first meeting hadn't really been a meeting at all. Just a continuous exchange of dramatic eye contact down the length of the bar and lots of bourbon. And of _course_ she would be drinking bourbon.

"Fucking lezzahs and your single malt. Is that like, a _thing_?" They'd left. Finally. And Katie was full bent on stalking all the way back to their flat, but Emily insisted on strolling, casually. It was fucking irritating. "What's the fucking point of spending all night at the same bar if you're not going to even _speak_ to her?"

"What are you on about, Katie? That place wasn't that bad."

"I've got cigarette burns in my stockings. And I don't even smoke!"

"Isn't it exhausting – being this dramatic _all_ of the time?"

"Fuck off."

"And anyway, I did talk to her. In the toilets."

"Oh, Jesus – I should have guessed. Lesbians and their bourbon and their clandestine meet-ups in the fucking loo." Katie had slowed to Emily's pace, though inwardly, _mentally_, she continued stomping along petulantly.

"You know, I am standing right here. Your _sister_. Your _lesbian_ sister. Can't you stereotype my kind behind my back or something?"

Exaggerating an eye roll, Katie had followed up with, "So what did the dark and mysterious tart have to say?"

"Nothing. We just paused, by the sinks. And then she said, 'Hey.'"

It's more a cackle, really, when Katie's laughter is that raw and that sudden. And that night, the sound of it had cracked through the night air, ricocheted off brick walls and damp pavement. Emily had shoved off her a bit, took a turn at her own petulant stomping, which had little to no effect on Katie pulling herself together. But by the time they were locked away in their flat, it was all but forgotten.

"Cue up EastEnders, yeah? I haven't seen the latest." Katie filled glasses of water, brought them out to the sitting room and settled beside Emily on the sofa.

"I can't believe you still watch this."

"Oh, shut up – I don't see you leaving the room when it's on." Katie collapsed her legs over her sister's lap without much resistance from Emily. "Ems," she started in a tone that usually got her nowhere where her sister was concerned.

"No fucking way."

"_Please_? My feet are killing me and those shoes are like murder."

"So stop wearing the fucking shoes."

"Never! I look fucking mint in them."

Emily never took her eyes off the telly, and eventually Katie resigned to watching despite her throbbing feet. But then, somewhere in the midst of the episode, during a rather intense conversation between Masood and Zainab about the state of their relationship, Emily's thumb began to press against the ball of Katie's right foot.

* * *

It's not on purpose that she ends up as a third wheel. It's more like, the only fucking option back then. They'd been in Bristol for less than two months when Effy just sort of materialised into Fitch life, and Katie had yet to strike out on her own to find better company. But then, Effy wasn't _terrible_ company. A bit messed up, a bit far gone most of the time. But not horrible.

"I'm not trying to fuck her." And Katie would have almost believed her without Emily saying anything further, for how sincere she looked. "I just – I want to know her. Is that weird?"

They were sat in a café near their flat one afternoon when Emily had decided to make her intentions known. Katie had mostly figured as such anyway. Because really, given her sister's sodding lesbian track record, or whatever, it probably would have happened that first night if it were to happen at all.

"It's weird that you don't fancy a fuck in the general sense that she's, like, ridiculously fucking fit," Katie had paused to notice Emily wearing a sort of odd expression, her brows all raised. But, whatever, she didn't fucking mean it like _that_ so instead she'd said, "I mean, if heroin chic is what does it for you. But it's not weird, in the sense that it's, well, Effy."

They didn't have much to compete in – what with Emily's love of football and fanny against Katie's flirting and keen fashion. Their interests didn't ever match up, to keep them at odds. It had stayed this way for years. Just two girls, with similar faces and frames, set about living completely different lives. They didn't share clothes. They didn't share friends. They hadn't, in truth, shared much of anything since the womb. Which is why, when it came to Effy, it had always been a rather peculiar dynamic.

* * *

"Have I got ash on my face?" Effy doesn't bother to turn and face her. Just keeps her eyes trained on the telly.

"What? No."

But then she does turn and asks, "Then why are you staring?"

"I'm not _staring, _thanks." Which is true, mostly. It hadn't been so much Effy's face as just the idea of her, that was making Katie's mind wander to those first few months. To that whole first year, and wondering how any of them managed to make it out alive. But Effy, of course, in particular. And as her mind wandered, her eyes had probably glazed over and now Effy felt them burning into the side of her face.

"What is it then?" Effy clicks off the telly, squares herself on the sofa until they're facing full on, and lays her head against the cushions.

"Nothing – I was just thinking – about when we first met you." So much of her life has been lived as a 'we' that breaking the habit has been slow. Breaking the actual unit of Katie and Emily had been quick, like ripping off surgical tape after donating blood. Katie stay put in Bristol. Emily went off to London. Quick, and _really_ fucking painful.

"And how you knew back then that we were destined to live this life of fame and glamour?"

Effy's voice does this thing when they're having a laugh. It's still so levelled but it sounds less detached. Like just her smile alone is holding it in place. And it's really fucking lovely to hear, actually. Effy doesn't wear pyjamas – just really old clothes with ripped seams and thinning fabric. And while Katie's pyjamas are a bit more sewn together, she's still wearing fuzzy socks and no make-up. They look a right pair.

"Oh yes, life on the red carpet and all that. Clearly."

"You didn't like me, for a bit." It's not at all what she expects Effy to say. But then, Effy's not really one for predictability.

"It's not that I didn't _like_ you. I didn't understand you, that's for fucking sure."

Effy's smile isn't gone completely, still ghosting her face a bit when she says, "And you don't like the things you don't understand, do you?"

And it's really no use trying to argue with Effy because she so apt to be right ninety-fucking-percent of the time. So Katie contorts her mouth instead and rolls her eyes, as if conceding with actual words is too much of a struggle.

"It's too quiet in here without the telly on, yeah?" Because sometimes the best option with Effy is to just non sequitur right the fuck out of the conversation.

"I thought we were having a chat."

"I was having a chat. _You_ were attempting to psycho-analyse me."

"Old habits die hard."

"Right." Katie rolls her eyes, runs her fingers along the sofa cushions.

"Fine, I'll put on a record." Effy slips off the couch, saunters to the stereo and thumbs through her albums.

"I want a drink." Katie says to the room in general. "I feel like getting pissed."

"You're an adult, Katie. Which means you're at liberty to get pissed at your leisure." Effy doesn't turn to speak, can't even be bothered to turn her head and talk over her shoulder. So she doesn't have Katie's scowl anywhere in her peripheral, which makes it that much more infuriating when she says, "I'm not your sister, so I see no cause for your petulance."

"I have a _really_ hard time remembering why we're friends most of the time."

When Effy does turn, it's only to see Katie retreating into the kitchen. But when Effy slides a black, glossy disc from its sleeve and places it on the turn table, she smiles.

* * *

It would be an exaggeration to say that Effy ends up in her bed _every_ night. Because she's not done the fucking math, and was always a bit shit at statistics anyway, but she's kept track of it enough to know it's not gotten _weird_ or anything. And anyway, it would probably be _more_ weird to ask a friend if they minded _not_ sleeping in your bed, then to just allow it to happen without making a fucking thing out of it. And besides, it's quite nice, having someone fill that space in your bed, in your flat. It's not as if Effy ever bothered staying in her own flat even when Emily still lived in Bristol. And if she could share a bed with the _gay_ twin who actually fancied bedding girls like Effy – all long legs, piercing eyes, and soft hair – then sharing a bed with Katie, if anything, made more sense. So nothing had changed, not really. Except, obviously, it had. Because Katie keeps logging all the time they spend. All the things they share. All the moments of shared space, shared dinners, shared booze, shared sodding groceries. And trying to read Effy's take on it all is like translating fucking Latin, so Katie says nothing. Until, one day, she does.

"So, like, what goes on, you know, with your flat?" She's rinsing produce at the sink, and the taps squeak if you've got them turned to a certain temperature, so her hands fumble to right it.

"Don't know what you mean." Effy is smoking at the kitchen table because if she's going to smoke like a fucking train engine anyway, she doesn't need to linger by window ledges for the better part of her day.

"Well, I mean, you're not really using the space, are you then?"

Effy waits a few beats, just long enough for Katie to regret every word that's come so far, before saying, "If you'd rather I start staying there, it's not a problem," in the most cool and unaffected tone. A chill runs up Katie's forearms and the water isn't even cold.

"Don't be stupid – that's not what I meant." And now she's just pulling a thread, unravelling a conversation that she hasn't stopped to think through at all. "It was just an observation is all."

Effy finishes her cigarette, crushes it into the glass tray before Katie manages, again, to fill the silence.

"I mean, you've always been here anyway so it's fine if you stay. It's fine if you don't want to stay either." The sodding grime on the turnips is unrelenting so Katie begins scraping a thumbnail against the surface. The root vegetable lands with a solid _plunk_ against the stainless steel once she's realised Effy standing beside her. "It's fine either way, obviously."

She's begun fiddling the taps again, trying to cease the high-pitched squeal, when Effy slides a hand over her own and gently twists. The noise stops. Her rambling stops. Everything just fucking stops.

"Okay. I'll stay then," Effy says, leant up to the counter so that the small of her back is flush to its edge. Her hand capped over the tap. Over Katie's fingers.

She can't quite ignore the knot in her throat, but she doesn't want to call attention to it either by working to swallow it back, so instead chokes a laugh and says, "Yeah. Whatever."

* * *

It doesn't seem fair that Effy always has the upper hand. Always knows your cards before you've played them. And so, one night while they are, in fact, playing cards, Katie raises an eyebrow and asks, "So who's the better kisser – me or Emily?"

And for a full seven seconds, it's completely worth it. Shocking Effy is worthy of fucking awards. And Effy can't even look at her while she takes a long swill of bourbon, so Katie gloats a bit with a cheeky smile and her own satisfied gulp of Sangiovese. But then Effy's never kept off-guard. Not for long.

"What makes you think I've snogged your sister?"

"Uh, because I'm not a daftie, yeah? She spent a long, lonely, winter in Bristol with no one to occupy her time and you in her bed most nights."

"And is that why you kissed me, Katie? Because you were caught in the midst of a dry spell?"

She wishes it didn't come out as a stutter, because it's not as if Effy needs any reassurance that she's generally spot on about her assumptions. But mostly, she's annoyed that Effy insists on answering questions with other questions. So she says as much.

"That's not – I asked you a question of comparison. So don't try and fucking manipulate your way out of answering it."

They both drink in tandem. And Katie feels her cheeks begin to warm with the sudden intake of wine. Or in anticipation of Effy's answer. Either way she can't be sure.

Effy folds her cards onto the table and considers Katie for a long minute, both sat on opposite sides of a low table on the floor of the sitting room. After a beat, she leans back, rests her weight on her hands, and Katie imagines that her shoulder blades are nearly touching.

A memory of something should probably be glinting behind Effy's eyes, but her expression is completely fucking neutral when she answers, "There's a good reason that Emily is so … successful in her enchantments."

"Ew. Gross." Katie laughs in spite of herself and takes another drink because nothing about her sister's sexual conquests or techniques registers as very funny.

"But," And it's only then that Katie remembers she's asked Effy something horribly awkward like evaluating herself against her own sister. So she tucks her chin to her chest, finds comfort in a dark spot on the carpeting. "no one kisses quite like Katie Fitch."

"Too fucking right, babe." Her wink makes Effy laugh. And Effy's laugh is everything.

* * *

She has a wretched date with some wanker named Carl who is equal parts dull and self-involved, but Katie really wants to shag because it's been longer than she'd like to admit. And sometimes, it seems like enough to just be touched and wanted. Even if it's total shit. Even if it's _Carl_. Sometimes, she thinks, the loneliness will wane with even a mediocre shag. Except Carl can't even manage to keep his tongue out of her throat for like, two fucking seconds, and by the time he's got one hand on her tit and she's undone his belt buckle, she's ready to call the whole thing off.

"Could you just drive me home actually?"

She feels awash in guilt for no good reason at all. Except seeing Effy's smile upon entering the flat, her face lit up with a soft glow from the telly, feels like the worst kind of betrayal. Nothing about it makes any sort of sense, but it's given her a headache just the same.

"Alright then?" Effy asks, and Katie thinks about crying like a sodding mental case.

So she just says, "I need a fucking shower, yeah?" before heading upstairs. She tries not to think about the last time she had a proper kiss. She tries, though without much real effort, not to think about how Effy's tongue had not been forced, but delicate.

That night, Effy sleeps on the sofa.

* * *

The day she gets the call about her mum – and the word her father uses is _'terminal'_ like he's only capable of quoting the fucking surgeons, like he's got no words left of his own to relay the news – she doesn't leave the bed. Everything goes black and quiet, like someone's boxed her ears and plucked out her eyes. She doesn't move for hours. So Effy brings her tea, which she doesn't drink, and toast, which she doesn't eat. So Effy brings her tequila, which goes down easier.

That night, Effy cocoons around her and somehow her fragile arms of skin and bone feel like a kind of strength Katie knows she'll never have.

Katie rings Emily because her father could never make that phone call twice in his life, let alone twice in one, fucking day. She talks quick and sobs as little as possible, but she could just as well be speaking to dead air because Emily says nothing at all. Effy rubs small circles in the middle of her back until the call is finished. Doesn't flinch when Katie pulls the fag from between her lips and takes a long, shaky drag.

"It's all shit, isn't it?" she asks and returns the fag to its rightful owner.

"Yeah, a bit. But we get through it, Katie. We get through it, okay?"

"How?" It's all cracked, her voice, all broken to bits by watery eyes and heavy sobs. It's every bit as desperate as she feels.

Effy exhales this lengthy plume of smoke and takes her hand, twists their fingers together and squeezes just once. "It's the only option, isn't it?"

That night, she falls asleep with her head in Effy's lap. Long fingers brush along her forehead and temple until she'd drifted off, her eyes heavy and swollen from too much crying.

* * *

When Effy goes to London to clean up whatever mess Emily has managed to make of her life in the span of just three, fucking months, Katie goes home to Pembroke. She spends the daylight hours in hospital, at her mother's bedside while her father paces and sighs and doesn't eat. The nights she spends with James, smoking spliff and ignoring the awful truth of it all. The day she returns home to an empty flat, she texts Effy and tells her to get on with it already. She's fucking lonely. Effy turns up the next day.

"How is she then?"

Effy's brought home champagne. The pink kind that Katie can never afford. And something about drinking bubbly while discussing her dying mum seems sort of counterintuitive, but it's all fucking turned on its head anyway so it doesn't quite matter.

"She's been admitted to hospice, but they have to like, wait for a room to open up. And, I mean, if that's not the most horribly morbid kind of news." Katie shudders as she says it. "It's like, we're just waiting for someone else to bugger off so that my mum can have a bed to –"

"It's shit."

Katie runs a hand through her hair and leans back into the kitchen chair. She's got one leg propped up on the seat so she can hug an arm around it. Effy is pouring the champagne into juice glasses. When she's managed to overflow only one of the two, she slides one to Katie and sops up the mess with a napkin. Katie eyes her wearily as Effy tips her glass towards Katie's and considers her for a long moment.

"To life in its entirety being complete and total shit."

Despite an exhausting and depressive mood, Katie manages a small smile before clinking her glass to Effy's. "Cheers."

That night, they go to bed at a ridiculously early hour because Katie had fallen asleep watching _Being Human, _despite usually being embarrassingly terrified of horror, even of the supernatural variety. Effy moves towards the bedroom at the end of the corridor before Katie stops her with a sleepy, "Just sleep in here tonight, yeah?"

When Katie is nearly succumbed to sleep, her breathing already slow and even, she hears Effy shift beside her.

"Katie?"

"Hmm?" Her conscious fights between sleep and awake and not being able to even open her eyes is making it a difficult battle.

But then Effy says quietly, "Being here with you – it's the part that isn't total shit."

* * *

**Author's Note:** What can I say - I'm a bit anxious. Never written much Keffy let alone an entire chapter so let me know you didn't hate it, yeah? Or, I don't know, let me know you hated it and I'll drown my sorrows by watching Naomily vids on youtube for six straight hours. Or something. It's official, mates, I'm a full-blown Keffy shipper. And if KFF isn't returning to Skins 2013 (moment of silence) then, fucking hell, she'll just keep popping up here in all her supremacy.


	14. Chapter 14: Abandoned Match

After two weeks a few things are fairly established. Naomi, naturally, keeps a running tally in her head.

Emily is instantly aroused with kisses just above her shoulder blades.

The amount of times they have sex in Naomi's flat as opposed to Emily's doubles once Emily realizes the high ceilings and open spaces create echoes during Naomi's more vocal orgasms.

They start adding spinach and kale to the blended fruit after Naomi reads an article on the nutritional benefits. And though Emily turns her nose up at the brownish colouring of their first batch, they turned out so brilliantly. Of course.

Emily is a topper. Without question.

Sometimes, they just read and listen to records in Naomi's flat. Which is really nice and feels comforting. Though, more often than not, results in Emily staring at her over the brim of her tea cup or binding of her book until Naomi relents to discarding her reading glasses and paperback so that Emily can go ahead and kiss her already.

Naomi prefers taking Emily on the sofa directly following their morning runs when her skin still glistens with perspiration and tastes of salt. But Emily has a knack for fucking in the shower with some really brilliant positioning. So they tend to alternate sweaty shags with soapy ones and call it a draw.

Naomi is hooked on _Big Brother_. Emily, is not.

The subject of Jenna comes up exactly once. Because despite the fact that fucking Emily is a constant and deafening train of thought, there are countless moments where Naomi senses the rather large, cancerous elephant sat in the middle of the room.

"So are you thinking of going home weekend next?" Another three day stretch on the horizon and they hadn't yet discussed any plans. Emily rinses fruit at the sink and when she returns with the bowl, Naomi nicks three blueberries straight away.

"Back to Bristol? I hadn't thought about it."

"I meant Pembroke, actually."

The warning look, she'd expected.

"Don't," is all Emily says before looking back to the chopping block.

"You _can_ talk to me, you know."

"Naomi, _don't_." And it's more than a warning but not quite a threat. So Naomi chews at her thumbnail before popping a raspberry into her mouth just as Emily is swatting her hand away.

* * *

They don't spend the weekend in Bristol. And they don't spend the weekend awkwardly avoiding subject matter like hospitals, chemotherapy, or fatality. They spend it in bed, properly ignoring phone calls and text messages until Katie practically reduces her means of communication to smoke signals and carrier pigeons out of desperation. So Emily calls to apologise and confirm that she is, in fact, still alive. Naomi suspects Emily might be shagging relentlessly in order to keep conversations about her family from resurfacing. And, when she's been worked up to frantic spasms and is shouting Emily's name for the third time in one day, she consents that actually, Emily's tactic has worked brilliantly.

"Fuck, you'll be the end of me," she pants as Emily slowly pulls three fingers out and kisses the flushed skin of Naomi's chest.

"Well, I guess if you _had_ to choose a way to go …"

"Cocky tosser."

Emily laughs something beautiful and if she could only regain use of her muscle movement, Naomi might have rolled over and returned the favour with more immediacy.

The following day, she gets a three-part text message from Katie that borders on reprimanding.

_If you and Emily can manage to stay clothed and vertical for more than six hours, there's another fucking fabulous home-cooked meal in it for you. _

_Clearly neither of you have any trouble shagging in my fucking flat so I don't see any reason to avoid Bristol. _

_Plus you owe me. I urged Emily to London in the first place. You're welcome, by the way. So quit holding her hostage, yeah? Cheers – the better twin_

* * *

"We have to stop avoiding other people." She's running her fingers through soft, red hair. Inhaling tropical fruits, eucalyptus, and sex.

"Why – growing tired of my company already, are you?"

"Not at the moment, but eventually –"

"Eventually _what_?" Emily is up on her elbows at that, the skin on Naomi's shoulder cooled instantly from where she'd been nestled there, and her face twisted up in an expectant scowl.

She smiles placidly. Continues, "Well, _eventually_, people will stop trying to see us at all. And then I'll be stuck with you."

Rightly so, that earns her a quick jab to her bared rib cage.

"Oi! See? And there's already signs of domestic abuse! I need to make sure I still have a lifeline." Naomi laughs, even if it is all by herself.

"Ha ha." A sulking Emily is still an irresistible Emily so Naomi rolls onto her side and begins kissing her upper arm and shoulder cap.

It's a defensive move, obviously, when Emily flips on the bed and turns to face away from the affection, but a wicked smile curls at Naomi's lips because, well, this just makes it easier. She inches herself closer until her body is all but aligned with Emily's without touching. The skin is raised in tiny, electric bumps before her lips ever make contact. Like the anticipation of it, or the warm exhale from Naomi's nose and mouth is enough, and Emily's body reacts in defiance of her sour expression. She's drawn a lazy trail of kisses along Emily's fault line before cracking her wide open. The results aren't quick this way - Naomi's front pressed to Emily's back - slowed by their positioning that makes a faster rhythm sort of difficult. But with one arm wrapped around Emily, hand working between her legs and fingers in slick folds, while their bodies friction a heat, Naomi has no intention of making anything about this _quick_.

Emily is already groaning, filling the room with her lovely, pleasured sounds, when Naomi moves to her neck and earlobe. Just sucking and breathing and watching the effects of it roll across Emily's face. Her closed eyes, her open mouth, the way she clamps down on her bottom lip. She gets her as close to release as possible without letting go. Thinks if she could keep her here like this – writhing and heated and wet, she would. All sex sounds and damp skin. Thinks that maybe Katie was right, and keeping Emily hostage is precisely what she's doing.

When Emily flips towards her and crashes against her lips, it happens fast. She's wrapped one leg around Naomi's, opening herself so that Naomi's hand has more to touch; and then Emily isn't the only one making noise. Naomi's got her face between Emily's hands, and they're holding firm while Emily bites and pulls, pushes urgent moans into her mouth. When she comes it's all staggered breaths and clenched fists at the base of Naomi's neck. And the space between them is practically no longer exists.

Later, she replays it all in her head and it's striking, the realisation. She watches Emily sleep, all curled against the sheets, quiet and calm. She looks small and peaceful, the way her hair is swept back from her face. The way her hands always fold together, tuck beneath her chin. There's an innocence to the way Emily sleeps. But it's all a lie. Because she can't be held hostage, not by anyone. Not really. Not by Katie, not by Effy, not by her mum and dad, and certainly not by Naomi. She watches her sleep and sees her as something bigger. Sees that the truth behind the quiet and calm is actually something loud and volatile. She watches her sleep, and it's lovely. It's also fucking terrifying.

* * *

"I've invited your sister to visit next week."

Admittedly, after the rapid-fire texts she'd received from Katie, she'd panicked a bit. Sent a quick invite to both her and Effy somewhere between a morning shag and afternoon Brazilian take-away, and then forgotten about it in a crazy sex haze for two whole days.

"What? When did this happen?"

"The other day. She texted me," she shrugs. And Emily's head, rested on her shoulder where they're sat on the sofa watching _Top Gear_ for no good reason, bobs up and down from the gesture before she sits up and actually looks at her.

"You and Katie, you _text_ each other now?" And Emily looks more amused than anything.

"Apparently, you've become an unreliable middle man." Emily nods once like she's conceded to the criticism then leans back against Naomi shoulder. "And anyway we won't have time to get back to Bristol for a bit so they may as well come here."

"Effy won't come," she says plainly, if not a bit deflated.

"Ever consider that maybe she'll _come_ for Katie?"

"Oi!" Emily scoffs while jabbing her finger into Naomi's ribs, but Naomi giggles stupidly just the same, grabbing hold of Emily's hand before she can assault her again.

* * *

Six days later, they're loitering around the bronzed bear statue at Paddington Station. Naomi's just trailing her fingers along the rim of his floppy rain hat, her other hand linked with Emily's who's sat on this raised platform at the bear's feet. Katie's strutting towards them moments later, Effy in tow. It's all loved up hugs and double kisses from Katie who was chattering away as she approached and has yet to stop. Naomi's been acting like a smug little prick ever since she spotted Effy sauntering through the station. Because when Naomi is right about something, she sure as hell wants to make sure you _know_ she was right. And although Emily would prefer shooting pointed looks at those sparkling blues exclusively, she finds her attention split between chastising Naomi, nodding absently at Katie, and worrying about Effy.

She's just sat there on the tube, rocking gently with the slow jerks of the moving train, her long legs crossed in her typical, effortlessly seductive way. But Emily knows too well that Effy is more likely to join the royal army than she is to show anyone her weaknesses. Doesn't wear her emotions on her sleeve but keeps them buried deep beneath her skin and flesh, embedded in the bones. So Emily watches her, looks for signs that she's closing in on herself. Looks for signs that aren't ever there. When Effy goes dark, Emily thinks, it's always without warning.

They switch trains at Oxford Circus, take the Victoria Line towards Highbury Corner. And it's not until they're walking towards Emily's flat, Effy silently puffing on a fag and keeping in step with Katie, that Emily finally relaxes a bit. Thinks maybe the cure for Effy and London is just more frequent visits.

Katie and Effy arrive on a Friday evening. It's the weekend following an Arsenal slaughtering of Liverpool the Sunday prior, in which Emily had scored her fourth goal and Naomi had nearly forgotten that she shouldn't, in fact, snog her on the touchline. She'd made up for it later, of course. And if Emily thought she was keeping fit to play professional football in the Premiere League, it was clear Naomi was trying to prove her wrong. Because there is sprinting up and down 104 metres of pitch for 90 minutes, and then there's shagging Naomi.

Emily's pouring drinks in her kitchen when Katie starts to dissect her flat, part envy and part critique.

First she says, "Jesus, this terrace, Ems. How did you even find this place, you fucking bitch."

Then she says, "What the fuck kind of shelving are you playing at? Milk cartons, _really_? What are you – a struggling artist in Camden Town now?"

She doesn't really pause for response, just blathers on because, honestly, Katie hasn't ever needed any reason to keep talking. Emily smiles to herself, thinks about how if she were ever going to leave her twin with anyone, of course it'd be Effy. All, quiet and introspective sounding board, fiercely loyal to Katie's incessant ramblings.

"So, what's on the agenda then?" Katie's asking as Emily walks into the sitting room with a two pours of bourbon and a bottle of wine, two glasses linked between her fingers.

"Thought we'd grab dinner then join up with the lads so you can meet the squad," Emily is saying once she's passed a bourbon to Effy and starts pouring the wine into glasses from her perch on Naomi's knees.

"Dinner _where_?" Katie asks, always sceptical that restaurants will fail to meet her fine dining palette.

"Not sure – you've got to ask the local about that one," Emily refers to Naomi and settles back into her just as Naomi wraps an arm around her waist.

"Well, that didn't take long." It's practically the first words she's said since their arrival, which would be odd if it weren't also completely expected. If it weren't Effy.

"What?" Naomi is asking when Emily catches Katie rolling her eyes dramatically from across the room.

"She means it's been, like, a fucking month, yeah? And already you two are a nauseating display of public affection."

It's in unison when they answer, "Five weeks," and Katie's disgusted scoff is timed sort of perfectly with Effy's soft laugh. And nothing can really deter her from wanting to kiss Naomi _ever,_ let alone after seeing her embarrassed little blush and nervous bottom lip.

They're finishing up the softest of kisses when Katie says, "Yeah, okay, we get it. It's sweet and all, Naomi, you counting the consecutive days in which you've been shagging my sister, but can you just, like, put it on ice for a few days?"

"No." And answering in unison is seriously _not_ something they do on a regular basis or anything, let alone twice in a row, so Emily is overcome with laughter when Katie's annoyance renders her speechless for several seconds.

"You'll have to excuse Katie, she's been having a string of shit dates so it's probably just pent up _frustration_." Effy smirks, blocks her mouth with one hand and whispers on the word 'frustration' as if this will somehow stop Katie from lightly cuffing the back of her head. Which, obviously, is exactly what happens.

* * *

Dinner is brilliant. Katie seems pleased with the standards at Little Bay on Farringdon, and Naomi drinks just enough wine to completely disregard Katie's earlier plea and starts letting her hands wander up Emily's thigh under the table.

"Alright then?" she asks Effy partway through dinner because Katie's got Naomi wrapped up in some debate over the new cast of _Big Brother_, which she loathes on principle despite Naomi's insistence that it's a 'brilliant, culturally-specific, psychological experiment of human behaviour.' Fucking bollocks.

Effy just nods, so minutely that it's hardly a response, but she's watching Katie's antics across the table, which have always been sort of soothing for Effy, and so Emily's inclined to believe her.

"We're thinking of heading to this club, but we could always do something more mellow, or just head back to my flat if you –"

"Relax, Emily. I'm not going to break. Let's go out – it'll be great." She's got absolutely no inflection indicating that she thinks it will, in fact, be great. But then Effy looks at her and smiles with her eyes before letting them drop to the table's edge near Emily's lap. "So fucking obvious, by the way."

And Emily has to swallow quick to stifle her laugh as Naomi's fingers work under the hem of her skirt.

* * *

She may as well be seventeen again – when they'd drink shit vodka straight out of the bottle because who had the fucking time for mixers back then – for as much fun as she's having. And even Effy has got this, like, ridiculous grin on her face whenever the lights flash in her direction. They're all crammed up in some sodding booth with fifteen footies and loads of others. Boyfriends, girlfriends, other randoms, perhaps. The other girls, or _the_ _lads_ as Naomi is apt to point out repeatedly, are cranked up to full energy at all times it seems. It's just this big chemistry explosion with them all sat around the same table – all that excitement used on the pitch just poured into their social lives as well. Which is rather infectious. Which is how Katie ends up doing blowjob shots off the counter at one point with a girl named Liv. Her hands folded behind her back and Emily holding back her hair like their back in fucking sixth form all over again.

Liv laughs and wipes her mouth, which is both gross and fucking appropriate, after the shot. Shouts, "Your sister's fucking aces, Bristol" over the music. And then she prompts Katie for a high-five, which is like, so fucking butch and Katie is wearing a Tory Burch dress for chrissake, but whatever. When in Rome.

Emily and Naomi are noticeably unaffectionate for the first time all day, and just as she's congratulating herself for being so influential, Katie realises it's got nothing to do with her and everything to do with football. Like their keeping up some platonic act for the sake of professionalism. And no one seems to pick up on their ridiculously frequent trips to the loo, so apparently the farce is working. Or, maybe they've just all agreed to play stupid for whatever reason.

She's drunker than she's been in public for quite some time so when she follows Effy out the back door onto some smoker's patio, she actually whines for her own fag. Effy lights one for her, all steady hands and bored expression, like she's never in her fucking life felt the effects of alcohol. She doesn't even comment when Katie takes all of two puffs before losing interest and letting it burn down to the filter between her fingers.

"You're well drunk." People say Effy is observant, but sometimes she's just stating the obvious.

"Gonna make sure I don't toss into my hair later?"

They're leant up against the wall of the club, shoulder to shoulder, heads leant back. But when Katie asks, she rolls her head to the side. Effy follows suit and then exhales this cloud of smoke that just shoots straight up between them without ever watering Katie's eyes or filtering into her mouth and nose. Just kind of draws up between them like a curtain. And this is why people find Effy so intriguing. So fucking _mysterious_, or whatever. Because in the middle of a drunken conversation at the back of some noisy club, she'll pull shit like this.

"Sure," she answers once the smoke has dissipated.

It's the last thing she says before stubbing out her fag against the wall, and the last thing either of them say before heading back inside.

And it happens so fucking quick, that she feels like someone's restricted her airways. Not like her breath's been sucked out rapidly, like a punch to the stomach, but like the air is right out of reach and she's only able to gasp in small intakes. It happens so quick that, at one point, she loses sight of Effy for, like, a handful of seconds. But it's just enough to send her into a full panic.

Naomi's being throttled from behind by some loud bloke when they return to the table, but Emily is laughing along so it's obviously not cause for concern. He turns once Katie's in his peripheral, all broad smile and wild eyes, when he says, "Oh-ho! It's me lucky day then! Not one but _two_ cherry lollies for Uncle Cook, ey?"

Naomi's elbowing him in the stomach but that's not at all what sobers him.

He mouths more than says, "Fook me," because it's barely even audible above the music anyway.

Katie turns her head towards Effy and sees as the strobes swipe across her face that what little colour she's normally got has drained completely.

"Long time then, princess." His voice a bit louder.

"Cook." And Effy doesn't speak much, sure. But when she does speak, she never struggles. Except she fucking _chokes_ on the word just then.

Katie looks down at Emily, who's caught up in the middle by where she's sat next to Naomi, just swivelling her head between them until her eyes land back on Effy like she's just sorted it out - whatever the fuck _it_ is - and the realisation terrifies her. So she stands up next to Katie, sort of creating this barricade between Effy and this kid Cook, who's like, properly shocked silent. She hears Effy breathe out the word 'fuck,' but keeps her eyes on Emily who's looking at her so intensely it's like she wants to tell Katie something without saying a word. But, like, twins or not, they've never really communicated wordlessly before. But the gist of it, Katie gathers, is that whatever is happening is fucking major.

Effy's gone by the time Katie turns around to ask if she's alright, even though it's an infuriating question to ask when you know the person is obviously _not_ alright. So she heads back down the stairs into the sea of people without looking back to see if Emily's followed along. Doesn't think about much except finding Effy because with panic comes tunnel vision, and _fuck_ if she doesn't feel panic coursing through her like bloody cocaine. Emily's hand is latched onto hers when they reach the front door, and she's not even sure how long she's been holding it, but when they crash out into the city air she's gripping it so tightly she might break bones.

Effy's up against a streetlamp, clicking her lighter futilely, all shaky, useless hands. She doesn't look up even when they're stood right in front of her. Even when Katie is taking the lighter from her and cupping her hand around it to light the fag dangling from her lips.

"Ef – shit, let's get a taxi, yeah?" Emily's head whips around, up and down the street, but Katie's eyes are trained on Effy, like if she looks away Effy might crumble to the pavement right in front of them.

"I'll take her back to the flat. You should stay out with your friends," Katie says, and her voice sounds far calmer than it should.

"I'm not fucking staying, _Katie_, fucking hell."

"Emily, don't," she warns, because having this argument is going to do fuck-all for Effy. "Just grab my clutch and the key to your flat, yeah? I'll worry about the taxi."

Emily pauses for about three seconds, eyeing Effy with a frown and knitted brow, before running back inside. Effy's hand still trembles every time she brings the fag to her lips, but now it's spread to her neck and shoulders until she's just rippling uncontrollably. So Katie pulls her into her side and wraps an arm around her as if the chill in the air has got anything to do with it. Emily seems to have relinquished her need to be the alpha caretaker by the time she's back on the pavement. She's just wearing this look on her face that Katie can't really read, or doesn't take the time to anyway. Just sighs gratefully when Emily hands her the key and clutch before she kisses the top of Effy's head.

"You'll be okay getting back by yourself?"

"I'm a little bit drunk, Emily, not a complete mong when it comes to navigating public transportation."

"Just call me when you get there, yeah? We won't be out much longer and I can stay at the flat with you if you want."

"Ems," she's opening a taxi door and helping Effy inside. "It's fine – go and stay with Naomi like you planned. I've got it, okay?"

She's never been particularly envious of her twin, but if she had to pick a trait to nick from Emily, it'd be her eyes. And of all their similarities, it's probably their eyes more than anything, that look identical. Sure they were bloody brilliant. Both this strikingly deep shade of brown and saucer shaped so that it was practically effortless to manipulate people – their parents, blokes, bosses – just by a look. Except Emily's always had this other quality. Like she was capable of having entire fucking conversations, or emoting the rawest and truest parts of herself with her eyes alone. And she sees it then, something Emily is saying quite plainly without ever opening her mouth. It's not quite resignation but something like it when she looks down at Effy then back up to meet Katie's eyes.

"Yeah," she says. "Thanks." As if it were always up to Emily to protect Effy and she's only just realised that's no longer true.

* * *

Not that she would ever admit it, but Katie does, in fact, get turned around a bit on the way back to the Emily's. But the driver is amiable enough and tells them this ridiculous story about getting stuck on Waterloo Bridge for six hours; though, she's barely able to focus because Effy's curled up to her and shaking so fucking violently at this point it looks like hypothermic shock.

At one point she sighs, "Ef, babe, just try and settle down, yeah? You'll break your jaw at this rate." Because she's clenched her teeth something fierce, and the thought occurs to Katie that she might have trapped her tongue between them in the process. So, of course, there will be that to clean up later.

Katie goes straight to the bedroom once they're inside and she's placed Effy on the sofa. Sends off a quick text to Emily then rifles through an overnight bag until she finds one of those daily pill sorters. Pops the cap on Friday and dumps the contents into her palm.

She makes tea then watches Effy swallow back three blue pills and one yellow. The shaking stops around the time she's managed to put Effy in a sleep shirt and pull the blankets up to her shoulders. They don't talk, and Katie knows from experience it could be days before she hears Effy's voice again. So they just lie there, Effy with this look that's not even haunted, like before, or pained, like Katie, but something vacuous. Which is obviously so much worse. Katie's propped up on an elbow watching Effy watch the space in front of her, and feeling properly fucking helpless. Because with the tea drank and the pills doled, there's literally nothing else to do but wait it out. She tries not to give in to the restlessness since it's counterproductive to keeping Effy calm, and if the shaking resumes, she's pretty sure she won't be able to make it stop. So, she just waits and watches.

It goes on for hours.

* * *

What's worse than the waiting is the way her brain seems to be working against her. Flashing images of Effy in hospital gowns. Pale yellow fabric with a blue trim because it's a 'medically proven colour palette' to help patients fight depression, or whatever, but ends up making everyone look rather jaundice and sickly.

She can't be sure that it _won't_ end up that way this time but doesn't let her mind dwell on the possibility that it could. Even though it's not been this bad in ages. Even though it's not been this bad even on the anniversary of his death, like _ever_.

* * *

Her fingers are just sort of tracing along Effy's hairline and temple, something she remembers from her mum. Something that used to soothe her after waking up with nightmares as a kid. And so much of Effy's life is just one, big fucking nightmare anyway.

But then her mind goes ahead and betrays her entirely by replaying a moment that's been well buried for fucking ages. And her hand stills on Effy's brow.

She'll pinpoint this later as the moment it all came unravelled. And she'll be wrong.

Effy doesn't even notice the change in air pressure, the way Katie's breathing stops. She's that far gone. Katie's eyes clench shut, so hard that random objects and lighted shapes flash across her eyelids, trying to block out what's already well on its way to becoming a fully resurfaced memory. But fuck if she's not already back in that hospital room, sat on the edge of Effy's bed. Back when Effy's scars were still scabs. Just red and brown raised lines all over her arms and legs. Back when her and Emily did nothing besides work, eat, sleep, and sit in hospital. Effy would go quiet for, like, seven day stretches, and the silences were always worse than the cutting. Because the incisions were like tiny, staggered releases. But the days she went silent were like layers of plaster just binding everything inside, until Effy went immobile from the weight of it all.

She knows it's worse the longer Effy's left to fester like this, and anyway they haven't got like, loads of time for her to lie about having a catatonic reaction to whatever the fuck went down in that club. And if what worked _then_ might work _now_, it's practically, like, selfish not to at least try. Even if it doesn't even make any sense _why_ it worked in the first place. Even if in three years she's never once stopped to question what the fuck that even means.

It's such a small, stupid gesture and one that she's shared with literally hundreds of people – especially in college when binge drinking and drug use just made it too easy – which is what she reminds herself when some surge of nervousness hits her chest out of nowhere.

The pills or the trauma or a perfect storm of the two, slow Effy's reaction time so that Katie's lips press against hers fully before she moves at all. And even then it's only her eyes that move. Just slide into focus until they're set on Katie's. And it's only because Katie is pulling away that her eyes are open to see that Effy's actually responded. So they're just stilled like that, a breath apart, Katie's heart hammering away – part relief, part terror. Until Effy's grabbed hold of her shirt collar and slams their mouths together again. And this time, her eyes are shut tight.

Katie's head starts spinning wildly almost immediately, screaming at her to fucking pull it together and stop snogging her best friend. Screaming at her that this won't fix anything. Except her mouth isn't cooperating, just starts to move along with Effy's of its own volition. And if she'd thought ahead to what Effy's reaction to this might be – beyond snapping out of the comatose that seized her – this sure as fuck wasn't it.

She takes another second - because it's not as if the way Effy's lips slide around her own is, like, unpleasant or anything - trying to recall how she'd stopped the kiss in the hospital, only to remember that she didn't have to. Because Effy had barely moved at all. It was her eyes that had come back to life. Not her, well, not this. Because _that_ Effy isn't _this_ Effy. Katie remembers that they aren't at all the same two girls they were back then. Remembers that they haven't been those people for years.

One swipe of Effy's tongue against her top lip and Katie's hands are against her shoulders, pushing herself away. Everything just sort of fucked inside her head. And certainly just as fucked, is what snogging Effy just did to her knickers.

"Fuck, no! No, no, no. Jesus fucking _Christ_ – what was that?"

Effy doesn't say anything, just blinks dumbly. But she's looking _at_ her, and that's a start.

"Why did you – _fucking hell_, Effy!" Only when she's run both hands through her hair and down her face does she look back to see Effy still watching her. And only then does she remember she's meant to stay calm. Because, in fact, it's Effy who's suffered the actual tragedy.

"Sure, Katie. That was something _I_ did."

Effy turns her back then, rolls over in bed and doesn't move. And the guilt is so sudden and so weighted, she's back to filling empty spaces with useless words.

"That's not what I – Ef, come on, turn around. We've got to fucking talk about this. _Please_."

Deep breathing does nothing to return a soothing calm to her voice and instead makes her feel like crying.

"Go to sleep, Katie."

Effy sounds exhausted, like she hasn't slept in ages. Which is probably closer to the truth than Katie chooses to acknowledge.

She can't lay and watch Effy's back turned on her, so she lays on her back and stares the ceiling. Whispers 'I'm sorry' like a refrain until her throat starts aching. When the sky greys just before dawn, she slips from the bed and settles on the sofa. Wraps herself in a thin blanket, and cries herself to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This was both exceptionally fun and equally difficult to write - because we're setting up some pretty major plot points all in one go - so I hope the end result is, well, positive. Except for the Keffy semi-cliffhanger which I'm prepared to be slaughtered for leaving. The best I can promise is to attempt a shorter update window so that you're not left hanging for too long. Though if Kaya and Kat keep taunting with their Twitter feeds, I may be trapped in a fangirling k hole and am thus relying on **fookyeahskins** to snap me out of it and tell me to get back to the fucking plot already.


	15. Chapter 15: Formation

The club had been well fucking awkward once she'd gone back inside, and Emily hadn't been lying when she said her and Naomi wouldn't be staying much longer. Cook had been at the bar when she got back to the group, and one look was all Naomi needed to start making excuses for them to leave. And because she's always _apparently_ got every possible scenario already pre-sorted in her head, she also manages a plausible excuse for them to leave together. The lads may have bought it, or the jig may be up; but when the only racing thoughts in her head are of Effy, as they push through the crowded club with Naomi's hand at her back, she could give a fuck about anything else.

It's a split emotion between heartbreak and relief when Naomi doesn't even ask her to explain. Just says quietly in the back of a taxi, "You're okay, right?" Like she's learnt in such a short span of time that asking questions will get her nowhere. But when they're safe inside, changed from their dresses and snuggled into bed, Emily thinks, if she can't speak of her mum, not yet, then maybe, at the very least, she can give Naomi this.

They lay quiet for quite some time, Naomi rubbing small circles on her back, while Emily works up a way to force words from the back of her throat into mid-air.

When she's finished with the whole, sordid mess, Naomi's got tears brimming those impossibly blue eyes and she's apologising. Like being this solid rock of independence all her life makes her somehow responsible for those around her. Like, at the age of seventeen, she should have been able to stop it, or something, without ever knowing it was happening in the first place. It's rather fucking heart-breaking, that.

Emily runs her thumb along Naomi's cheekbone and kisses her just above each eyelid. That night, they sleep like the dead. In the morning, for the first time in months, they don't get up to run.

* * *

Katie wakes to the sound of her mobile, its chiming muffled by her blanket and forearm. She sees the text from Emily first, and Effy at the end of the sofa, second. Because she's managed to fold herself into this impossibly small space – just pressed into the far corner. Hands and arms and legs compacted until Effy is half the size of her usual self, which isn't very fucking large to begin with, obviously. And just the sight of her there is enough – the way she's not even bothered to take more than a pathetic corner of the blanket, the way her neck is bent at an awkward angle – but by the time Katie's worked her brain awake to realise _why_ she's there, her eyes are stinging with fresh tears.

She's barely shifted, but Effy's got piqued senses like a fucking feline, so her eyes creep open as Katie leans against the back cushions and tucks loose hair behind her ears.

Effy rubs sleep from her eyes and croaks from behind her hands, "You left."

So Katie swipes at her own eyes, bites the flesh inside her mouth, because she really can't be crying right now. Effy's not just looking at her, she's fucking _talking_ to her, which is all a bit more than she'd expected; and maybe, they're going to get through this after all.

"Yeah." And some weak confirmation feels practically useless, so she follows up with something equally useless and says, "Emily is on her way – bringing brunch or something."

Effy looks off towards the kitchen or the bedroom or anywhere that isn't _Katie_, because yeah, nothing she's saying warrants much of a response anyway.

So she swallows back something she can't yet define and says, "Can't have slept very comfortably there like that. Why did you –"

And being sucker-punched in the stomach feels a little bit like Effy saying, "You _left_," for the second time in as much as six minutes.

The coppery taste on her tongue is indication enough she's broken the skin, and it's not as if the pressure she's applying is doing a fucking _thing_ for the tears brimming her eyes. So when she thinks that maybe she can hold it together for more than like, fifteen seconds, she looks back to Effy, who's face is contorted somewhere between confusion and abandon.

"I'm sorry," is about as best she can do.

But because it's Effy, she's got to know, "For what?"

Katie flings her shoulders into a helpless shrug, keeps swiping at her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "For being a selfish cunt, obviously." Because kissing Effy had been motivated by, well, she isn't exactly sure. But _leaving_, that had been nothing about Effy and everything about Katie.

Effy asks so evenly, so immediately, "Which time?" it's not until her mouth quirks up in just one corner that Katie's sob coughs its way into a laugh.

So she kicks a heel against Effy's calf and rubs at her eyes again.

With some of the throttling tension eased, she's finally able to say, "So are you – I mean, you're not – you don't have to tell me about that guy or anything, but I just need to know that, _fuck_, just tell me you're going to be okay again."

It's a solid beat before Effy, almost incredulously, asks, "_That's_ what you're worried about?"

And it's not fair, the way Effy can just quirk an eyebrow and elicit these reactions from people. Because it's not just Katie who falls prey to these simple gestures. It's not just Katie's cheeks who flush, who's words stutter like some hormonal teenager – it's anyone in the line of fire. It's blokes at the deli. It's girls working the till at the grocery. And it's not fucking fair.

She can't work up a direct answer so instead Katie goes ahead with the absolute truth of it all and says, "I can't lose you again, okay?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Katie. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well you weren't _fine_ last night, Ef, and it was really fucking terrifying, okay?" And if she's going to say it at all, it's probably now or never. So she exhales, "Look, I know we've got to sort through, well, whatever – we've got shit to talk about _obviously_, but my main concern is you being okay. So just, like, promise me you'll call the doctor when we get back to check in, yeah?"

And it doesn't even bother her that Effy's warm smile is also a bit condescending, because at least her eyes aren't like, these hollow, lifeless orbs, so it's more comforting than anything when she says, "Yeah, I'll check in. I promise." But then it's something else entirely when she follows up with, "It'll all be okay. And _we'll_ be okay. Probably, you know, better than okay."

And what the _fuck_ is she meant to do with that?

* * *

Emily's flat is many things. It's warm, when the sun angles through the front windows between three and five. It's eclectic, because Emily's yet to acknowledge her addiction to antiquing. It's cosy, when she's got Emily cradled to her chest, laid back on the sofa under a fuzzy blanket. But today, this morning, this _sodding_ brunch, it's basically un-fucking-bearable.

Naomi's leant over the island in the kitchen because Emily is wrapping pastry around a wheel of brie; and being in close proximity to Emily is decidedly the only way to avoid whatever the fuck is happening between the other two. Not that Emily's in a much better spot – casting these darkened eyes and worried glances into the sitting room every other minute. And even though she's mostly all queued into the whole Effy backstory, Naomi can't help but feel like she'll always be two steps behind.

When Effy slips out the terrace door for her seventh fag of the morning – and that's a bit excessive, even for Effy, Naomi's noted – Emily's lurched over to Katie, having abandoned the brie _and_ Naomi.

With a heavy sigh and an empty stomach, she's moving back into the sitting room where Emily and Katie are speaking so hushed and so quickly – their nearly mirrored faces just millimetres apart – she can't even be sure they're speaking English. But when she plops down on the couch beside Katie, Emily cuts her eyes quickly to meet Naomi's, and her smile looks less tentative than it has all morning. And then she's moving back towards the kitchen, leaving Naomi to drum her fingers uselessly along her kneecap while Katie settles back into the sofa cushions.

She's pretty, Katie is, in this sort of obvious way most of the time. Likes her hair to be dazzling, her clothing to be designer-labelled. And it suits her, Naomi thinks. Except, this does too. Because even though it's clear she's been crying, her face is clean – like she's not used make-up to try and hide the red around her eyes, or the little dark patches beneath them. And _this_ Katie is not the girl she first met in Bristol; and she's not the girl who was snapping heads at the club last night. But still, like this, she is just as lovely.

Her eyes are in the direction of the windows, in the direction of Effy, but even Naomi can tell she's much farther away than that. But she follows her line of vision anyway, watches Effy's back hunched over where she's sat on the bench.

Katie's got her legs folded up underneath her, her hands wrapped around a steaming cuppa, and there isn't much to say when Naomi turns back to face her other than, "Some night."

She clears her throat then, smiles this smile that could nearly be Emily's and says, "Yeah. It was eventful."

There's an urge to defend Cook, and then a second later she feels pressed to at least apologise on his behalf, though both are fleeting once Naomi recognises them as equally futile. So she works her top lip between her teeth, and says nothing. Lets the quiet settle over them while sounds of Emily in the kitchen occasionally disrupt the silence.

Effy's back inside, bringing with her a wave of nicotine that stings Naomi's senses. So she moves to get up from the sofa because it's not like Emily's got loads of available seating, and besides that, the air in the room thickens by about eighty percent just by Katie and Effy being in it. And they're just staring at each other for what feels like several long minutes by how much sweat suddenly gathers in the creases of Naomi's palms.

She's just awkwardly stuck between sitting and standing – hovering above the sofa cushion like a proper git – when Effy finally moves a hand in her direction without breaking eye contact with Katie and says, "Anyone else feel like getting monumentally drunk this morning?"

"God, yes." It's out of her mouth so quick, Naomi's a bit embarrassed for being so eager when Effy just smiles over at her and says, "Cool."

* * *

Emily's done a fucking brilliant job with brunch, and even though she's always felt a bit superior to her sister in the kitchen, Katie can concede that Emily's trumped her on this meal. They're all a bit more relaxed after the third round of vodka and mango juice, and she's nearly certain that Naomi has purposefully been pouring her drinks on the heavy side. She knew she liked that girl from the start.

"Someone needs to move this brie away from me or I'm going to finish it off in one, fucking sitting," she's saying as she leans back from the table and takes another drink.

"I'll take that as a compliment then," Emily beams.

"Send me the recipe, yeah? I could work that into a meal around the holidays."

"Why don't you just ask _Naomi_ to email it to you?"

"Just because you can't be arsed to return my messages, doesn't mean you need to feel threatened by me texting your girlfriend. It takes you three bloody days to return my calls sometimes, and do you know how long it takes Naomi to respond? Thirty minutes."

"Arse licker," Emily says just before kissing Naomi in a way that lingers, since they're drinking vodka, for chrissake, and it's not yet midday.

And watching her sister getting affectionate with her girlfriends has always been uncomfortable for obvious reasons. But sitting through her and Naomi's public displays at the breakfast table has become insufferable. And the fact that it's Emily has become much less significant to the way Effy's eyes seem to find hers from across the table. So she looks away and eats another piece of the fucking brie.

Once they're all pretty well off their tits, Emily starts making some thin excuse to get back over to Naomi's to like, change her shirt or something. As if she's not actually _in her own flat_ with a bureau full of fucking shirts. And the looks they're giving each other after each increasingly long kiss is about as subtle as Keith Richards in a nunnery. So it's actually a fucking relief when they've stumbled out the flat, leaving her and Effy to finish cleaning the kitchen and washing the dishes. And, whatever, it's a small price to pay if it means she's no longer forced to watch Emily's hands casually wander up Naomi's shirt.

She's left alone in the kitchen for a bit when Effy's slipped back out to the terrace smoking what's got to be her twentieth fag of the day, not that she's counting. Not that she's clocked her every movement since she woke up to Effy curled at the far end of the sofa. Not that she's dissected every brush of contact, or felt riddled with every stray glance in her direction. And now that she's a handful of cocktails deep, she's definitely _not_ replaying certain events of the night prior.

She's far too wrapped up in her own head to notice Effy has sauntered back into the kitchen and is leant up against the butcher block behind her. So when she muses sort of softly and lazily, "I think I'll take a nap," Katie fumbles the knife she'd been washing and yells out, "Jesus _Christ_!"

The blood pools up rapidly on the pad of her finger as she shoves it instinctively into her mouth. But of course it's covered in soapy water, so she's crudely spitting into the sink about a half second later. Effy's already laughing when she's moved in next to her. And it's not like her life's at risk or anything, but it doesn't stop Effy's reaction from irritating its way under her skin.

"I'm fucking _bleeding_ here, thanks," she scowls. And almost resists the way Effy's reaching out for her hand. _Almost_.

"It's a bit too early to say for sure, but I _think_ you're going to make it," she's saying as the cool water from the tap rushes over Katie's fingertips.

"Tosser."

"Drama queen."

A few intensely quiet seconds later, Katie finally says with some annoyance, "Weren't you going to nap or something?"

And she shouldn't have looked, because if the swollen lump in her throat or the nervous sweating under her arms wasn't enough indication, just common fucking sense tells her _not_ to make eye contact at that moment. Or probably, like, ever again if this – _whatever_ it is – is going to sort itself out so they can go back to normal. But she's well drunk and ignoring all the warning signs, which is when she goes ahead and turns towards Effy.

She doesn't kiss her, thank _fuck_. She does something far worse and says, "I was waiting for you."

And Katie's sober in an instant at that. Her chest just constricting all the air from her lungs until she's practically squinting from the pain of losing oxygen.

"Oh."

Effy's turned off the tap and swipes the excess water from Katie's fingertip with her thumb. And Katie sort of hates her for how calmly she says, "I'll go look for a plaster."

* * *

Sex with Naomi never gets old. And maybe, after only five weeks, it's an unfair assessment. But then she's undulating against the rhythm of Emily's fingers, her clit pulsing against the flat of her tongue, and Emily feels more than confident in her assessment. Because no, it's not fucking possible for this to get old.

They don't have a lot of drunk sex because they don't really have a lot of time to get pissed. So it's a bit of a novelty then – this afternoon shag where they're both half lit, not even making it to the bed and settling for the sofa. Though, if she's being honest, Emily's been long suspecting that her girlfriend has a fetish for it anyway. And if getting her off in the sitting room is what causes _that_ sound when she orgasms at _this_ intensity, then Emily plans to fuck her on every sofa in Highbury.

"I can't believe we ditched my sister to shag," she laughs once she's moved to lie between Naomi's legs, her head cushioned nicely between her tits.

Naomi always turns to useless jelly after climax so it's the most she can do, tracing small patterns on Emily's lower back with one hand. The other left draped off the sofa like dead weight.

"Pretty sure those two will be able to sort it out in our absence," she half-slurs, half-sighs.

And she's drunk, but not oblivious to innuendo, so her brow's a bit creased when she asks what the actual fuck Naomi's implying.

"Nothing – it was just sort of _intense_ this morning."

"Oh, do you think it was _intense_? Do you think it might have had anything to do with, I don't know, Cook popping up in Effy's life after six fucking years?" It's instinctual, the way she's immediately on the defensive where Effy's concerned. But when she looks up to see Naomi's eyes, suddenly clouded over in shock and worry, she exhales quickly.

She's about to apologise when Naomi clarifies, "I know – I know the thing with Cook, seeing him again or whatever, has well fucked her up, but." And biting her lip is the way she attempts to end that thought.

So Emily moves a hand to her tit, squeezes a bit possessively and says, "Speak," which cracks a smile across that lovely, anxious face.

"Well, didn't you – or haven't you ever noticed the way they are with one another?"

"They're close, yeah? We've all been like that for years. It probably looks _weird_, or whatever, from an outside perspective, but it's not. It's just the way we've always been with each other ever since – well, just ever since, you know?"

"Right," Naomi nods but she won't make eye contact, which earns her a second tit squeeze.

"_Naomi_."

"No, yeah, right. Sure," she agrees with absolutely no conviction.

"_What_?"

"The snogging bit then – have they been like that 'ever since,' too?"

"Oh, Christ, we're back to that, are we? It was one, stupid time!"

"It's just – I don't know, Ems, I was certainly picking up on something other than post-traumatic stress this morning. Namely between Katie and Effy. Namely when they were, like, _looking_ at each other."

Emily's practically in hysterics at this, laughing directly into the soft, heated skin of Naomi's stomach, when Naomi challenges, "Mark my words, Bristol! You heard it here first!"

But by now Emily's shaking her head and looking up at her. "Can you just shut the fuck up please," she sputters between giggles.

"What – why, 'cause you know I'm right, yeah?"

"_No_, because talking about my sister and my best mate like they're, _whatever_, is not your strongest foreplay."

Which is all the encouragement Naomi needs to grab at Emily's bum, pulling her upwards. "What's the matter – it's not working for you then?"

And all her faux seduction isn't enough to keep Emily from laughing, crinkling up her face at the suggestion when she says, "You're so gross."

It's a mild distraction, at best.

Because within the hour, she's managed to forget Naomi's twisted reasoning and actually remembers very little, other than the way Naomi's tugging on her lower lip when she's worked her up to a shuddering orgasm.

* * *

She's sat on the bed, holding a tissue around her finger when Effy walks into the bedroom from the en suite, flapping a plaster between her thumb and forefinger and smiling like an idiot. Watches as she moves around the bed and climbs up, sitting crossed-legged next to her so that they're facing. When Katie reaches for the plaster, Effy pulls it out of her reach and gestures for Katie's hand.

She concedes with an eye roll and then tries not to watch with much interest as Effy tends to her wound. Fails miserably to control her racing pulse when she kisses the tip once it's wrapped, and says without much conviction, "You're so ridiculous."

Effy watches her, and it's not at all like she used to. Which makes it difficult to just sit there. Makes it downright awkward when she remembers that her hand is just resting in Effy's on the mattress between them. So she moves it back to her own lap and then starts laughing uncontrollably. And Effy doesn't say anything, just watches her with this smirk. Like she's just endlessly amused watching Katie completely lose her fucking mind.

Which is obviously what's happened because she hears herself saying, "This is really fucking weird."

"What's really fucking weird – sitting next to me?"

And, fuck Effy for making her say it, but she's drunk and apparently gone mental so, whatever, she answers, "No, sitting next to you and like, not being able to think about anything but kissing you. _That's_ fucking weird."

So of course Effy's got to make it worse by like, licking her lips and falling back to rest on the palms of her hands. Shrugs in that totally unaffected way that's suddenly incredibly infuriating and says, "It's not weird. You're a great fucking snog, Katie. I think about kissing you all the time."

"_What_?! Since like – I mean, how – oh, fucking hell." She's buried her head into her knees and is hugging her legs tightly like everything that's happening is some horrible nightmare that will go away if she just closes her eyes.

She can hear Effy laughing, which is about as helpful as petrol in a grease fire.

But then she says, "Look, you like kissing me, yeah?"

And Katie nods, into her arms, like a petulant child who can't be arsed to make eye contact.

"And I like kissing you – I don't see the problem." As if these are the sorts of casual conversations they have on a daily basis.

"The problem," she's practically shouting when her head snaps up, "is that you're my best friend and that we, like, _live_ together for chrissake! And we can't just go around fucking snogging each other!"

Then Effy goes ahead and dismantles her completely when she's tilted her head to one side and says, "Why not?"

Arguing with Effy is about as frustrating as it gets because, too often, she's able to end the whole fucking thing with like, two words. She's cocked an eyebrow again, waiting for Katie to answer. Waiting for her to sort out her stutters and annoyed breaths into actual words, but of course, that doesn't happen.

Instead she's closing her eyes, forcing this breath out between her lips, and trying to retain some sense of calm. Trying to seek out one shred of reasoning to make her case.

"We just can't, okay?" She opens one eye at a time, barely brave enough to look at her square on. "It would just be too, I don't know, complicated or something."

Effy sits up, and Katie's stomach drops out immediately.

"Your biggest concern five days out of the week is plot development on _EastEnders_ – a soap that my gran won't even watch, mind you. Your life could use some complication, Katie."

Her protest gets caught somewhere between a scowl and a quick inhale when she realises Effy fully intends on kissing her. So at the last possible moment, when Effy's lips are close enough that she can feel their warmth, and long after her eyes have closed shut, she breathes out, "Wait."

And Effy pauses just long enough for Katie to open her eyes, which is when they start darting between the blue of Effy's, all still and focused. Her breathing is so unsteady, she can actually see the effect it's having on her chest and shoulders. But then Effy is reaching up, places a hand against her collarbone and says, "I did."

She hesitates for a few beats, trying unsuccessfully to convince her vodka-addled brain that this won't, in fact, be the worst idea in the history of poor decisions.

It's different from the first kiss, in that she's not trying to save Effy. And it's not at all like their second kiss, which was mostly clumsy and broken up by bits of nervous laughter. But, it's also not anything like the way Effy was kissing her last night – in that desperate, urgent, shock to your fucking system sort of way.

Which is when Katie admits that, for someone trying so pathetically not to make a habit of snogging her best mate, she certainly has a history that dictates otherwise.

This time, Effy's lips are careful – just softly touching her own over and over.

This time, when she feels Effy's tongue swiftly glide along her lips, she doesn't push away and leans forward instead.

She's just about forgotten about how fucking bizarre this should be – kissing Effy, in a bed, with proper tongue – when Effy slides her hand to the back of Katie's neck. Runs her fingers into her loose hair and grabs hold. Which is when Katie does pull back.

Effy releases her grip and is apologising, though Katie's not quite sure for what.

And then they're both just sat there, catching their breath, until laughter bubbles up and she's in no position to stop it. So she just starts laughing. Like _really_ laughing. Cracks herself up until she falls back against the mattress and feels tears in her eyes.

It's so fucking ridiculous.

Effy collapses next to her – laughing to the extent that Effy can ever really muster – and props up her head in her hand.

"We're so dumb," Katie says, once she's managed to pull herself back together a bit.

"Yeah," Effy agrees, smiling down on her. "Reckon we should stop?"

Katie can't actually say the _word_, because she knows full well it's not the right answer, so she just shakes her head back and forth along the pillow instead.

Effy rests a hand on her stomach, just sets it there so she can feel the warmth through her shirt. It feels nice.

"We should, like, have some rules or something though," she says after some consideration.

"Rules?"

"Yeah, rules, okay? Like," Katie twists her mouth up, narrows her eyes, then decides, "no kissing while lying down."

"That's rubbish."

"And, _definitely_ no kissing without, you know, clothes."

Effy just raises her eyebrows to that. Like the fact that Katie's even thought that far ahead is satisfying enough, and she wouldn't dare ruin it with a response.

When they get back to Bristol, Katie will compose a list on the small white board they use for groceries that's hung on the fridge. Effy will tolerate it, even when Katie writes out The Rules at the top, like it's a bloody header. Even when, three days later, she adds a third rule to the list about: No kissing against doorways. Which, when prompted, leads to a vague reference of a recurring dream that's been torturing Katie since London.

It's _so_ fucking ridiculous.

"Sit up then," Effy directs her after she's gotten back up herself.

"I thought we were napping," Katie is saying even as she lets Effy pull her up from the pillows.

"Not tired anymore."

She's kissing Effy again and doesn't even remember who started it, just that it's happening with a bit more enthusiasm this time. Because when Effy's hands thread through the hair at the back of her head she doesn't even flinch, just sets one hand on Effy's shin, the other on her knee. Pushes her own tongue between Effy's lips, and then is forced to clamp down her fingers around Effy's knee when it results in the faintest of moans. And then it's Effy it breaks away, leaving her forehead resting against Katie's and keeping her eyes closed. It's the loveliest she's ever looked, Katie thinks.

"We're _so_ dumb." Katie doesn't have to open her eyes to know Effy's smiling. So she's smiling in return when she says, "Yeah."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I don't have much to say other than, um, Keffy: it's happening. In case any of you were worried I was about to neglect that particular storyline. My biggest concern at this point is that I'm satiating both my Naomily _and_ Keffy obsessions because, I'll be honest, at this point - I love them both. Like _fierce_. I also love the feedback, as always, so keep it coming. I'm trying desperately to get these chapters out as frequently as possible so just bear with me, yeah?


	16. Chapter 16: Progress

Once it's over, turns out the weekend with Katie and Effy, though not a raving success by any measure, isn't total shit either. They'd managed to pull themselves together enough to enjoy a few, key highlights after a tense and awkward start to things. The biggest highlight, as far as Naomi's concerned, being a rather gruelling leg wrestling match between the twins, in which Katie had come out victorious. Much to the chagrin of Emily, who enjoyed losing about as much as having hot needles shoved under her fingernails.

The end of September brings three fixtures in seven days and buckets of rain, soaking every pitch in Britain. And that actually _is_ total shit.

It's not until weeks later, when the weather's chilled and their schedule has slowed, that Naomi feels herself relax.

They're on the sofa one afternoon, wrapped up in baggy jumpers and thick blankets, while raindrops bead on all the window panes. BBC4 is playing a marathon of _Unnatural Histories_, and it's sort of soothing background noise to their quiet afternoon. In the way that educational programming can lull you to sleep if you're not paying it much attention. Emily's not even watching – with her face turned towards the back of the sofa, her head rested on Naomi's chest – and Naomi thinks maybe she's fallen asleep.

"You awake?"

And it's barely a grunt, but Naomi can feel the vibrations of Emily's response on her ribcage.

"I want you to tell me about her."

She'd been working at bringing it up for weeks, and truthfully, much longer than that. Because broaching the subject of Emily's mum had always gone over so fucking famously. So she would practice these little speeches, in her head, just before falling asleep at night. Always worded it differently and repetitively, until all the words sounded garbled and foreign and totally insincere. In the end, it was all relatively simple: she just, wanted to know. This wasn't something she _needed_ from Emily. It wasn't something that was going to rip them apart or hold them together. But, it was something she wanted. And when she thought about it that way, she knew it would come down to this. She knew – as she'd learnt from an early age – that when it came to the things of want, so often it was just a matter of asking for them.

Emily doesn't push off her, like Naomi had expected – the way she always associates physical separation to emotional withdrawal.

And she doesn't tense up in Naomi's arms either. She just lays there, completely stilled. So it takes several, long minutes for Naomi to figure out exactly how the fuck she's meant to proceed from there. Because nothing about this moment is what she'd expected, what she'd mentally prepared for. She can't push, not much anyway. And she can't plead, because it wouldn't be fair – making this about her.

So she abandons the subject of Jenna entirely and says, "I've got brown hair, like my dad." She pauses, but not for Emily – who she knows won't comment on much at this point – and instead muses over the statement with a little smile. "It's not a great colour or anything – just this sort of bland, shit-brown that looks pretty typical. And my dad was like that, you know, just sort of a typical guy. Nothing remarkable about him. Except I rather liked that shade of brown, just for being his."

Emily shifts against her then, finds her hand and twists their fingers together.

"Course I never wanted to be anything like my mum. But then he left and, I don't know. I begged her for the bottle dye – went this, like, shockingly horrible shade of white – just stripping all the colour right out of it. Like I needed to go blonde, look a bit like my mum, just to feel like I belonged to her or something."

* * *

Emily doesn't talk about her mum. But when she does, it's not at all like Naomi had imagined.

They're back in Emily's flat and it's October and the skies are darkening earlier with every day. They no longer run in tight vest tops and tiny shorts, which is both disappointing and completely necessary for warding off the crisp, morning air. Emily, for the past thirty-five minutes, has been ranting on and on about Naomi's inability to keepy-uppy. It's about as enjoyable as watching her run in track pants and jackets.

"It's completely nonsensical – you've got some of the best coordination with your feet I've ever seen, and yet you can't juggle a ball in mid-air for more than, like, seven seconds!"

Emily – as if to really drive the point home – is currently doing a bit of keepy-uppy in the sitting room while she speaks; Naomi stretches her long legs down the sofa and watches with mild amusement. It's been several minutes, and what was initially incredibly impressive is now simply _annoying_, what with the commentary.

"Why would I waste time learning to perfect something that's got nothing to do with the actual game of football? It's just a show-off manoeuver, yeah?"

"It's not! It's completely applicable to the coordination necessary for skilled ball dribbling _with_ the added bonus of impressing your mates."

Emily looks a bit cheeky when she says it, prompting Naomi to ask, "That right? Loads of girls just fawning all over you because of it, ey?"

"Never mind the girls – I didn't much care about them until later. I'm talking about thirteen-year-old boys playing pick-up matches on the patch of grass behind the library. And how, if there's one thing a pre-hormonal boy is _not_ interested in, it's letting a girl on his footie team." Naomi lets her eyes close, nods once in consent. "But," Emily continues, "do you know what they sure as fuck _are_ interested in?" She kicks the ball up to her knees, where it bats between them then rolls back down her leg to rest on her foot, and smiles at Naomi.

"Having a girl on their team that can keepy-uppy?"

"Too fucking right." Emily echoes Naomi's laugh, but turns her attention back to the football when she says, "My mum would _shit_ if she saw me doing this indoors."

Her tone is still light and her face still smiling, and for the quickest second, Naomi almost forgets to respond.

"Wouldn't approve this as a recreational activity for the sitting room then?"

"_Definitely_ not." Emily stills the ball between the floor and bottom of her foot, just looks at it for a second and then sits down on it like a tiny stool. "She's rather particular – very rigid and organised and just, everything situated just so, you know? Reminds me of you a bit, in that way." And by the warmth of Emily's smile – the one she's directing to the windows instead of Naomi – it's clear she's not making this connection for the first time.

And something about that, swells up Naomi's heart until it shatters all over her chest.

"Think we'd get along then – me and her?"

She doesn't stop smiling, not entirely. But it shifts from something sweet and nostalgic to sad and rather broken when Emily says, "No. I don't think so."

* * *

Katie has stopped harassing them nearly as much, until it's instead Emily who's calls go unreturned and messages ignored. Which prompts Naomi to rouse the popular topic of Katie being preoccupied with Effy. Which, in turn, earns her several disgusted faces from Emily and subsequent jabs to her ribs and shoulders.

They're riding the tube one Saturday when Emily pulls out a camera and takes her picture without saying a word. But it's not as if she does it quickly, like she'd meant to catch Naomi off-guard. Just sort of pulls the thing out casually, balances against the swaying of the train with her feet spread wide, and clicks a few times with a kind of smile that Naomi could look at for days.

Weeks later, she spots a framed photo that she doesn't recognise from where she's sat on Emily's bed. It's on the bureau that's already cluttered with other pictures of Emily's life: Effy with younger, darker eyes; Katie with purple hair and a round face; and, James in a kit she's always imagined he'd inherited from Emily. So she moves from the bed to find her own face in the new frame. A candid shot from that day on the tube when she'd been wearing some gaudy scarf with bright orange flowers and an old, black knitted cap. And of all the dates they've had, or all the required events for the club they've attended, for that matter, where she'd actually put forth some effort, _this_ is the one Emily chose to place among the people she loves most.

When Emily enters the room, towelling her hair and wearing a sleep shirt that she's nicked from Naomi's flat, she turns to her and smiles.

"What?" Emily says like she's just been caught with toothpaste on her chin.

"I love you." It comes out like a contented sigh.

Emily just freezes – her hands caught up in her towel and damp hair – and doesn't move again until Naomi's taken two steps towards her and started kissing her mouth, which is still heated and soft from the shower. Then Emily's dropped the towel and started returning the kiss, tentatively, like someone who's been completely thrown off kilter and hasn't yet caught up.

She _does_ manage to catch up, later, in bed. And the sentiment comes out rather breathless and scratchy while Naomi is brushing strands of hair from Emily's face. She just manages to look up at her, pulling herself back together, and says it. Which, as it happens, is exactly the way Naomi's always wanted to hear it for the first time.

* * *

Realising she'd been in love with Emily all those months ago had been a bit shocking at first, but over time, it became a kind of familiar comfort, like wrapping herself up in one of her mum's afghans. But then, having Emily love her back – actually _hearing_ the words – properly does her head in for days.

They can't seem to interact _ever_ without some exchange of affection.

It's rather disgusting, being this loved up; and also rather fortunate, that no one is subjected to their constant displays. Because it's beyond her control really, and for once, Naomi could give a fuck about having control.

Their declarations manifest in varied ways.

Emily will bring her tea and then kiss her until the cup goes cold.

Naomi will attempt to make breakfast until Emily's wrapped her up from behind, kissing the base of her neck, and always, _always_ the eggs burn in the pan.

There's a bus rank a block from Emirates where Naomi often keeps Emily pushed up against in a morning snog, until Emily desperately, breathlessly reminds her that, as captain of the squad, it's poor form to show up late for practice.

She's rarely, if ever, lost contact with Emily's hand or leg or elbow or back, or sodding belt loop. Always just linked together in some way or other, whether it's inside their flats or strolling through vendors at Camden Passage. And being tethered to Emily, it's such a safe feeling, that.

Which is why the phone call is like a gunshot.

* * *

Naomi's been sat at Liv's since after practice where her and Emily are meant to have supper. She'd had errands to run and sent Naomi on ahead to Liv's so they could 'talk endlessly about what a fucking catch' she was. Cocky bastard was more like it.

"Any chance that girlfriend of yours plans to show up at some point?"

Emily is late, and being unresponsive, so it's with a distracted smile that Naomi answers, "What's the matter – afraid all your efforts in the kitchen are gone to waste?"

Liv's emptied three or four take-away containers into pots and pans on the stovetop like they're in the middle of some awful, fucking romantic comedy.

"Fuck off – I've managed to impress houseguests for years with this ruse, thank you very much."

"Sorry, mate, Emily already knows you're a shit cook."

"Bristol's got a first name now, does she?" Liv says with a smirk.

Naomi flips her off and checks her mobile for the eighth time that minute.

"So it's all official then? All loved up and boring now, are you?"

"Yeah," Naomi smiles. "Yeah, it's good."

"Well, hoo-fuckin-rah then." She lifts her cocktail to Naomi's and toasts, "My vagina is happy for your vagina."

Naomi wrinkles her nose and tips her glass. "Thanks. I think."

When her mobile buzzes, fucking _finally_, it's the wrong Fitch but she's quick to answer just the same.

"She's at her flat." And the fact that it's not just the wrong Fitch but not at all a Fitch, sends Naomi's head spinning for a few beats until Effy continues, "I'm packing up Katie for Pembroke. They'll have to leave in the morning."

The line is silent until Effy finally says, "Alright?"

Naomi, wearing fuck knows what kind of petrified look on her face, is clutching onto something she later realises is Liv's arm. "Right. Okay. I'm – I'm on my way. Wait, Effy – can you just –"

"It won't be long now. Emily should be there when she goes."

* * *

She finds Emily in her bed, still shirtless but wearing grey trousers. The entire flat has gone dark, and she debates for a second on turning on any lights. But crawling into bed, being as close to Emily has possible, takes obvious precedence.

Naomi lies beside her, tentatively moving an arm around her waist, but Emily is wrapped around her in seconds, just clutching onto her with all the strength of someone twice her size. She's crying then too – gasping these giant sobs that Naomi can feel against her chest and grabbing for bits of Naomi's clothes, her skin. Like if she isn't actively trying to hold on, Naomi will slip away.

"It's okay, it's okay." She says it over and over, despite knowing they're empty words. Promises she can't keep.

When the levies splinter, it's quick minutes before everything crashes open.

"Everything's fucked up – everything's so fucking broken. She hates me and I love her. She _hates_ me."

Naomi, suitably trained in endurance, treads water.

She won't speak – isn't arrogant enough to think she's got anything worth saying in this moment. She won't speak when Emily's finally managed to let out some of what's poisoned her all these years. When Emily's finally found her words. Even if they are horrible, _horrible_ to hear out loud.

"I miss her – I miss her like she's already gone, and it's not fair that I've got to lose her all over again. It's not fair." All her words get mumbled against Naomi's skin, slurred by all the extra saliva that comes with heavy crying. They are broken up with violent sobs. They are said in great gusts of breath. They are said like a helpless release.

Naomi grips her tightly until everything's spilt out. Until the large shudders turn to small hiccups. Until the waters settle and return to sea, leaving everything in its wake split open in ruins.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hello lovelies! OK so - small chapter, big happenings. Cruel world. I've got another chapter of the Keffy variety just on the horizon so hold tight, yeah? Someone had the fucking brilliant idea to write Keffy and Naomily in equal measure (I think it was me), which sounds great in theory but is actually quite fucking difficult in practice. If I can get the next chap out by tonight or tomorrow, do you promise not to murder me? Thanks, mates!


	17. Chapter 17: Against the Run of Play

**Author's Note:** OK no more empty promises of two chapters in two days or any other such nonsense. That obviously didn't work out. The thing is, these characters have minds of their own and are quite often very uncooperative when I'm attempting to wrangle them into plot. I'm a bit more comfortable writing Naomi and even Emily, but Keffy is a delicacy that can't be rushed. So here you have it. I hope it was worth the wait?

Just remember, the next time you're feeling neglected by lack of fic updates, take comfort in the lovely pic Kaya tweeted in which Kat's adorable little face is RESTING ON Lily's shoulder. Jesus Christ.

You all are lovely - thanks for continuing to follow along and for all the love. Cheers!

* * *

It doesn't even make sense, their _arrangement_.

It doesn't make sense, but it works a bit like this, in any event:

Katie attempts to maintain some level of normalcy by like, not allowing herself to kiss Effy every fucking time she's got the urge. It's successful, mostly.

And Effy never initiates the kissing, not really. Not _technically_. Except she's not fucking shy about openly watching her with this look. From the sofa. From the kitchen window. Across the bloody dinner table. This _look_ that's basically like, an open invitation, for fuck's sake.

Katie never has more than three drinks. _Ever_.

They don't share a bed much anymore. And mostly because when they do, Katie can't work herself to sleep, no matter how many hours tick by, and tends to wake up with bags under her eyes. Which she then curses Effy for in the loo at work while she applies another layer of concealer. If she had been kept awake snogging or even something else, that would be one thing. But instead, she's sleepless over _not_ snogging, _not_ touching, _not_ doing the something else. It's so much worse.

Effy sticks to The Rules rather honourably. No matter how often Katie catches her eyes roll as she opens the fridge.

When she kisses Effy, Katie keeps her hands on her impossibly slender sides. Or, on occasion, she'll just gently grip her shoulder caps when Effy's got both hands tangled up in her hair. "You're so fucking thin, you bitch," she'll say before pulling on her sides so that Effy falls against her lips again, smiling like she's just won an argument they hadn't been having. Effy always wins anyway.

Effy tries exactly three times to slip a hand under her shirt, ending all three snogging sessions rather abruptly. And, for once, Katie feels like she's won a round.

* * *

After the initial outburst of embarrassing and uncontrollable _need_ to be on each other's mouths, like, constantly, they manage to spend three nights in a row as just Katie and Effy. Two best mates eating really good food, drinking bargain wine, and watching shit telly. They laugh at the stupid programming. They laugh because of the wine. Laugh at each other. Laugh at absolutely nothing. It's lovely.

They don't tell Emily. And they don't discuss the reasons why.

* * *

Katie's just about convinced herself they might be putting an end to whatever happened back in London – and subsequently carried over into life in Bristol – and a part of her is honestly relieved. Because it's been well stressful trying to sort things between right and wrong. Good and bad. Too far and not enough.

And then she comes home from work to find Effy in the most ridiculous black dress. Just straps and satin, bared back and shoulders, and legs for days. Her hair is swept up like the wind itself is responsible for how haphazardly gorgeous it looks. She's moving about the kitchen in bare feet, and something about that makes it even worse. It's fucking _ridiculous_.

"Uh, hey," Katie says from the doorway, just slowly removing her bag from her shoulder until it lands with a soft thud against the floor. Doesn't hide the fact that she's looking. Because that's so obviously the objective.

"Oh, hi." Effy looks at her then, and it's worse than seeing her from behind. It's worse still when Effy notices a spot of sauce on her thumb, smirks at the finger then at Katie, before sticking it in her mouth sucking it clean. "Good day at work then?"

It takes a concerted effort to work the air back in her lungs, but after a few beats, Katie has narrowed her eyes and fixed her mouth in a way before saying, "You think you're so fucking clever."

Effy smiles at her then – an _actual_ smile, like someone's just told her she'd aced her bloody A levels – flashes something like innocence from her dangerously blue eyes, and shrugs before turning back to the stove.

Katie had never before taken notice of just how _many_ black dresses Effy owns, but apparently, it's fucking loads. Four nights in a row, Katie comes home to the same display: a variation on the dress, the hair, the smoky eyes, and the bare, fucking feet.

* * *

She can't fuck Effy. She doesn't try to figure out _why_ - just knows she can't and leaves it at that. So she masturbates instead. Rubs it out in the shower, like, daily. Starts wanking in her room directly after work, before supper, thanks to the parade of sodding black dresses. Has her hands down her knickers so often it's like she's trapped in the body of some horny, fourteen-year-old boy. Starts to feel some empathy, for like, the first time _ever_, towards James during his years of puberty.

She gets home on a Tuesday, heading straight upstairs without more than a rushed 'Hey' to Effy, who's stirring something on the stove and wearing some smug, fucking smirk. And it's _nearly_ the last straw when she discovers that inside the small, rectangular box on her bed – which is wrapped in shiny, pink paper – is a fucking vibrator.

It's nearly the last straw, but not quite.

The last straw happens two days later.

Because the first thing she does that night, _obviously_, is clomp angrily down the stairs and throw the box towards the sofa where Effy is curled up reading Dostoyevsky, or something equally fucking pretentious. And because she chucks it a bit too forcefully, it breaks open against the far wall, and the sodding dildo lands in the seam of Effy's book.

That night, she takes her supper to her room and eats on the floor at the foot of her bed, sulking like a spoilt toddler, and trying desperately not to enjoy the meal, which is actually fucking perfect.

So it's two days later, when she's sat in bed flipping through the latest copy of _Heat,_ that everything goes completely tits up. It's unmistakable from the first sound that hits her ears – softer and subtler than the subsequent sounds that drift through her open door from down the corridor. And her first instinct is rage that bubbles up from her gut to her chest as she stalks down the hall. Until she's stood, tensed and irritated, outside the closed bedroom door with a hand raised in a clenched fist, like she's about to break it down. What purpose that will serve, she's not exactly sure.

But her irritation quickly gives way to painful arousal that works its way from the pit of her stomach into her kneecaps until she's crumbled to the floor against the wall. And if snogging Effy for the past few weeks has been pretty fucking gay, then getting off outside her bedroom door to the sounds of her orgasm is the _gayest_.

* * *

The day it all happens is actually fucking brilliant before it goes completely dark.

When it's James that rings her instead of her dad, Katie's pretty much already figured the worst. He's incredibly high – probably has been for months, in fact. So it's a bit laboured and with great concentration that he's finally able to form words and tell her she's got to come home. Effy's got her wrapped up immediately, just starts rocking them both back and forth, before the call has even ended. Before the phone drops from Katie's hand and hits the floor.

But before the call, before the news dropped like a guillotine, it was just another boring Thursday morning. Until it wasn't.

She steps out of the shower, not yet aware she'll be calling into work with a migraine. Thinking about the blouse that's still at the dry cleaners or some equally useless shit. Things had been mild in the flat, with Effy; had lulled a bit in the wake of the vibrator incident. Their dynamic sort of plateaued into something manageable. So it wasn't as if she'd been expecting any dramatic shifts. It wasn't as if she'd been expecting to see Effy perched at the foot of her bed when she exits the bathroom, clouds of steam trailing after her. Which, is exactly where she finds her.

She's still using the corner of the towel that's wrapped around her head to wipe beads of water from her earlobes when she says with a bit of unexpected laughter, "What are you doing?"

Effy shrugs, but barely. Because mostly she's got this _look_ that's like, entirely unnatural on her. It's almost like she's fucking _nervous_ or something, which is about as close to figuring it out as Katie gets before Effy's moved from the bed towards her.

She puts two hands on Katie's waist – one of which has slipped through the towel fold, making contact with her skin. And Effy's hand isn't cold but cooler than her own skin, still steamed hot from scalding shower water. Though, the contrasts in temperature have precious little to do with her sudden, sharp inhale.

Effy's pushed her lightly until she's backed against the wall and then says, "Katie." And no one says her name quite like that – like Effy. Like she's always a bit exasperated and bored in the same breath. So it's a bit unfair then, that Katie is slow to respond.

She's barely even managed to process the fact that Effy's thumb has like, properly grazed the skin just under her breast when she's also started kissing the water drops from the crook of her neck. And the combination of the two sensations feels fucking amazing, by the way.

But Effy's hand is on the move, just sliding easily over the heated skin of her back and stomach. The other, Katie takes note, doesn't move from her side. Just sort of holds firm; and the thought that Effy could ever be the one to hold Katie in place, is almost laughable. Effy, Katie thinks, would snap like a twig between her fingers.

And associating Effy with her fingers is about all it takes to make her realise exactly what the fuck she's allowing to happen.

Her first attempt at resistance is feeble at best, because she can't even manage to open her bloody eyes or stop her head from tipping back against the sodding wall. It doesn't sound convincing in the least when Katie scratches out, "Effy, stop – we're not supposed to –"

Which is why Effy's only got to say, "Shut up, Katie," to crumble her resistance immediately. And it's barely even audible – the way her voice is often caught between a whisper and something low and sultry.

The effect of which is so much fucking better than all the tiny, black dresses in Europe.

It's a bit of a lost cause then, because she's not even clinging to the sides of Effy's tee shirt but actively trying to get underneath it. And like, when did she turn into Emily anyway?

So she lets Effy guide them towards the bed – kissing her not at all like they've made habit, kissing her instead like it could be the only thing she does for the rest of her fucking life, thank you – until her knees fold and she's pushed backwards against the mattress. And then she _is_ grabbing at the tee shirt because suddenly not being in constant contact with Effy sounds like the worst thing in the world.

They do this, for a bit. Just lay there – Effy on top and weighing as much as humid air – and kiss away the restraint until there are all these sounds of need and want just filling up the room, and Katie can't even be sure who's made them.

Effy reaches up, at some point, untangles her hair from the towel until her dark, damp curls are just splayed out on the duvet.

"Are you okay?" She hears Effy ask, which is when she finally opens her eyes. Sees Effy just looking at her, this sort of apprehension plastered all over her stupidly beautiful face.

And Katie's pretty certain that it's the first time Effy's ever thought to consider the person she's about to, well, _whatever_. And if it's not the first time she's thought it, it's sure as fuck the first time she's said it out loud.

If it were some bloke she really fancied, Katie thinks she might have some coy response, bat her eyelashes and answer softly. Or, if it were just some random shag, she'd probably be well drunk and say something dirty – shove the guy's hand between her thighs to _show_ him just how okay she was.

She erupts into laughter at that. And it's total shit timing because Effy looks genuinely concerned where Katie's gone and lost control of her giggle reflex yet again.

"Sorry," she laughs against Effy's lips, trying to resume the mood. Finally pulls back and shakes her head, still smiling when she says, "Sorry, but it's like, your hand's on my tit, and I'm just laying here practically fucking _naked_ and snogging my best mate _in my bed_ – so I don't really know how to answer that, babe."

"I just thought – I mean, I want this to be more than – _fuck_." Effy, at a loss for words and unable to hold eye contact, is decidedly less funny and incredibly, fucking attractive.

So Katie just sits up then, stands at the foot of the bed before reaching down to take Effy's hand. When they're stood toe-to-toe, Effy's got some height on her, but with her head tilted down and her eyes still uncertain, she looks very small.

She pulls up on the tee shirt until Effy's forced to lift her arms above her head. Swallows hard and closes her eyes when she lets her towel fall to the floor beside the discarded shirt. And then there just stood there, like a couple of kids who aren't sure which parts you're meant to touch first.

She feels Effy's fingers first, tracing a line from her sternum down to her stomach, then realises Effy wants her to _look_ at her when she says, "Hey."

And it could be like any other morning – where Katie's put the milk away after making coffee without first pouring some into Effy's cereal bowl – in which Effy's just trying to get her attention with a soft, 'Hey.'

Except it's not like any other morning like, _ever_. Obviously.

When she opens her eyes to see Effy looking back at her, she's never felt more absolutely naked. And under that exposure, starts shaking involuntarily.

Effy considers her for a moment before kissing her lightly on the cheek and climbing back onto the bed. Pulls back the blankets and pats the space next to her. "Come here."

The invitation – the soothing lull of her voice and just the fucking sight of her sitting there – does fuck all for the shaking, but Katie concedes anyway. Scoots her way quickly from the foot of the bed to the spot beside Effy and lets her pull all the covers up over them both. The shivers are still sort of violent – just ricocheting through her neck and shoulders, even her face – but the warmth of the blankets feels nice. Being covered feels nice too, even if, technically, she's still very naked beside an equally naked Effy.

"Better?"

And Katie nods, in spite of the shivering.

It's good that Effy is so calm and collected, she thinks. Good, _and_ completely un-fucking-surprising. The contrast is comforting, mostly, but also extremely irritating in that Effy's breathing is even while Katie is simultaneously losing her shit.

It's not the cause for her nerves, but it seems like bringing it up could be a good distraction from them, so she says, "We can't tell Emily, okay?"

"Katie, I can't lie to Emily – if she asks –"

"Well, that's not bloody likely, is it?"

Effy waits, watches. Wheels just churning slowly in that head of hers – the way everything she says is well-planned. "It's not the gay thing?"

Katie laughs, realises she's stopped shaking like a total freak when she lifts her hand and lightly shoves against Effy's shoulder. "Yes, stupid, I'm worried that my extremely gay sister is going to judge me for like, fancying a girl."

"_A_ girl?"

The smirk makes her blush. The raised eyebrow does her in completely.

"Well, I haven't been _wanking_ to Kate Moss for the past month if that's what you're asking."

Effy's crooked smirk turns to a full grin when she says, clutching her chest, "That's _literally_ the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Shut up." And Katie's laugh is swallowed up in Effy's kiss.

When she pulls back a moment later, Effy's still very close when she says, "So, what is it then?"

"You mean with Emily?"

Effy nods, pushes hair back from Katie's face and tucks it behind her ear.

"Me and Em, we don't really share anything, you know, besides like, DNA. But then you came along," the thought of which causes her to smile like an idiot, "and it just sort of worked – the way we sort of share each other, or whatever. I don't know, it sounds stupid, but –"

"No, it's not stupid. I get it. But, I guess I don't know why that matters if she –"

"Because your _hers_, Ef. I think it's worked out so well all this time because I've always known that – that you just sort of _belong_ to Emily."

Effy nods once, licks her lips that are so close to Katie's because they're like, sharing a pillow. "So we won't tell her. Not for a bit anyway."

Katie's brow creases skeptically. "You're very agreeable all of a sudden."

When Effy kisses her, it's so slow and so soft, Katie thinks: this must be it. Whatever is going to happen, whatever has been meant to happen for Christ knows how long, is a breath away.

"Maybe I am Emily's, in a way," she says a second later, before Katie's even reopened her eyes. "But, you've always been _mine_, Katie. And I'd rather like to keep you."

There's nothing left after that. No more words, no more hesitation, no more paralysing anxiety. Just the feel of Effy, warm beneath her, as Katie rolls over and _shows_, rather than tells, Effy she can keep her for as long as she likes.


	18. Chapter 18: Change Ends

**Author's Note:** Oy! This update took for-fucking-ever, yeah? Hello, lovelies, how have we been? Getting the fearsome foursome back together was a bit trickier than I'd originally thought it to be, but here they are - back as things should be. And keeping themselves rather, um, busy. Ahem. Read on then!

* * *

It's nearly ten when Katie is sat at the table in the kitchen, drumming her fingers along its surface, her eyes steady on Effy, who's whisking pancake batter.

She scowls, relaxes the creases in her brow, then scowls again. And the words – the ones she's been mulling for nearly an hour – keep getting caught up in her throat every time she opens her mouth.

When Effy looks up from the mixing bowl, Katie's fingers still and her face relaxes, though the smile she attempts flounders miserably.

"What is it then?"

Katie breaks eye contact, shakes her head, and speaks to the window. "What? Nothing."

"Katie …"

And then the words, they come fumbling out in a rushed panic, "Look, I know it was shit, okay? Because, honestly, I have _no_ idea what I'm doing, and I would have like, called Emily for pointers or something if that didn't also sound like the most _horribly_ awkward kind of conversation to have with my _sister_. But, the fact that you're just fucking merrily whipping up pancakes –"

"You said you wanted them," she says with so much earnest, Katie nearly screams in response like a sodding headcase.

Instead, she forces an exhale before answering, "So not the point, Ef."

And Effy smiles then – this lovely, unguarded look – and sets down the whisk and bowl. "It wasn't shit."

Katie hates being placated about as much as she hates being lied to, so she looks back at her and says pointedly, "It _was_ shit. I've had rugby players get me off with more precision and they're like, mostly retarded."

Effy tilts her head back when she laughs, and Katie's panic dissipates entirely.

When she moves around from behind the counter, Katie remembers just how ill-fitting her tee shirt is on Effy's frame. Just how little leg it actually covers. She moves the chair beside her with her foot, sliding it out in a silent invitation for Effy to join her at the table. But with two easy strides, Effy's stood in front of her; and, after a mild struggle, Katie's finally able to look away from her bared legs to meet Effy's gaze. An appreciative smile stretching from her lips to her eyes – brilliantly blue in the morning sun.

She reaches out, runs both thumbs along Katie's bottom lip then presses upwards in the corners until Katie is wearing a forced, cartoonish smile. Effy mirrors it with her own toothy grin until Katie laughs out loud, her smile turning genuine.

"Better." Effy nods, clearly satisfied with her efforts.

"You might be a little bit retarded too," Katie laughs, pulling Effy by the sides of her ridiculously small tee shirt until she's settled between her legs.

"By your standards, I suppose that could work in your favour."

Effy wags her eyebrows, but with only a small tug, Katie's managed to close the space between them significantly. So when she says, "Shut up," it's practically said against her mouth.

The kiss moves from playful to seriously, fucking hot right around the time Effy's straddled the chair where Katie's sat. Hugging her legs tightly around Katie's waist and working her hands swiftly under her shirt.

The way things are headed – the way Effy moans into her mouth when Katie's hand moves instinctually to the front of her knickers – she's fairly convinced the glitches from before were nothing more than figments of her paranoid imagination. And the angle while sat in the fucking chair – it's worse than before, a cramp already forming in her wrist. But just as she's decided to give it another go and slips her hand between skin and fabric, Effy's moved away.

Stumbling backwards and breathless, she swallows hard and says without explanation, "Sofa."

Katie allows her fingers to be tangled up with Effy's, the force of her urgency just enough to pull Katie off the chair as Effy heaves them towards the sitting room. Effy's somewhat manic, one-tracked mind has left her clumsy, the effect of which leaves Katie grinning stupidly as they trip over each other, landing ungracefully onto the sofa.

Effy pulls off her shirt and lies back with this look of anticipation for Katie to join her. Except the sight of Effy naked – or even _nearly_ naked, considering the knickers – is still a new occurrence and takes, like, some getting used to. So Katie just pauses, with her bottom lip pinched between her teeth, and looks. Because, yeah, she has no fucking clue how to properly fuck a girl. But this – Effy and her long limbs, her flat stomach and taut nipples – _this_ is the girl who's willing to be her practice dummy.

The relief that floods through her when she's finally getting Effy off – that she's at least on par with the blokes she usually shags, and also that consulting Emily is no longer necessary – is overshadowed just as quickly by arousal. Because hearing her name, whimpered across Effy's lips, is easily the best aphrodisiac, like, _ever_.

So when Effy flips them over, slides two fingers in straight away – Katie's orgasm comes almost embarrassingly fast. And then they're both just a tangled, limp mess. The moment is completely lovely, Effy pressed to her, their breathing synchronising to a calmed rhythm.

"Ef?" Katie combs her fingers through silky, brown curls. Feels sweat linger between her skin and Effy's.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think we're fucking things up – like the balance of everything. Are we fucking that up?"

Effy shifts, and the bits of skin that sheen with perspiration feel instantly cooled.

"On balance life is suffering, and only the very young or the very foolish imagine otherwise."

Katie rolls her eyes but can't manage to stop smiling at Effy when she sighs, "Care to fucking translate?"

Effy, sandwiched between Katie and the back cushions, traces Katie's jawline with the lightest touch, and it's enough to make her stomach, like, flip around beneath her damp skin.

"Orwell," she states then quickly follows with, "You're still worried about Emily."

"Not just her – what about you? What about me? This is – shit, Ef, this is fucking major, yeah?"

"You mean, I'm meant to, like, call you tomorrow and everything?"

"I'm _serious_!" Katie insists, though Effy starts to laugh and she can feel the reverberations of it against her own ribcage and stomach. It's fucking irresistible.

"Don't you ever just allow yourself to enjoy something without over-thinking it?"

"I think that having you on top of me _naked_ for, like, the second time this morning totally, fucking warrants my over-analysing."

Effy kisses the corner of Katie's mouth, now slightly downturned in thought, before sitting up and reaching down for Katie's hands.

And seeing her best mate like this – sex still fresh on her skin and just completely, openly exposed – without letting her mouth drop open will be a fucking adjustment. Definitely.

"First – pancakes," Effy says definitively. "Then I'll let you sort this out over and over again until your pretty, little head explodes." she plants a kiss swiftly on her mouth once they've stood and hands Katie a tee shirt from off the floor. It's the one Effy was wearing earlier, but it doesn't much matter since they're both Katie's and neither will properly cover Effy's bum anyway.

Though once Effy's sauntering back into the kitchen ahead of her – without having bothered to slip back into her knickers – Katie debates keeping Effy in nothing but her tee shirts permanently.

* * *

James says, "She's asking for you. The doctor's say it's not yet time, but you know mum – she's got to be right about everything. So I think maybe she knows better – the fucking docs are just guessing anyway, aren't they?" He pauses with a sigh. Sometimes the cadence in his voice sounds so much like Katie's father, she almost cries. "Better bring Ems, too, I guess."

* * *

The busy train station is a good distraction from her thoughts, from her final destination, from the pained look on Naomi's face as she'd turned to board the train back in London. Emily sits on a bench waiting for Katie and Effy who'd managed to get hung up at Temple Meads. She scrolls through texts from Naomi she'd sent progressively on her walk from her flat to the stadium for practice. Ten in all. Her mouth pulls up in one corner just as Katie calls out from nearby.

"Hey."

"Hi." Emily stands, reaches out for Katie before collapsing into her arms. When she pulls back, Katie's face looks like her own – crestfallen and tired. Like if she hadn't already wrung herself dry in the hours preceding, there would be tears brimming her eyes. "Hey, Ef."

Effy moves towards her then too, wraps one arm around her neck and kisses her temple. "Looks like Katie's not the only one who needs a stiff drink then?"

"Or thirty." The twins answer in unison then share a smile that's practically reflective.

"Let's get you home then – your brother owes me some fucking spliff." Effy winks to them both before heading off towards the bus terminal.

When Katie slips her arm through Emily's, something settles deep within her bones. Because whatever they're meant to face – however grim things are bound to get – they'll do it as a unit, with Effy leading the charge.

* * *

At their father's bidding, they don't go straight to hospital but meet at the house instead. He stands at the front door waving, his beard fuller and speckled grey, as the girls spill out of James' clunky two-door. The house – wedged between two much larger estates – hasn't changed, Emily thinks. The red paint is still chipped around the letter box, and the hedges out front need trimming. The imperfections warm her cheeks and hands against the bitter wind whipping through her hair.

"Hey Dad," she smiles coming up the narrow walk – hoping that the house isn't the only thing that hasn't changed in so much time.

"Emsy," he says, wrapping her up in a bone-crushing hug. And the warmth spreads.

* * *

The house isn't spotless, a few take-away cartons and old newspapers cluttering the kitchen table. Tea cup rings stain the counter. But it hasn't gone to complete shit either. Juice glasses are drying on the rack beside the sink, proof of her dad's efforts. For the first time ever, Emily thinks it feels inhabited, the way a family home should. The space feels lived in – something her mum, the anal-retentive perfectionist, always seemed to avoid, even with three screaming children running about.

A pang of guilt flushes through her then because it shouldn't be comforting, this mess that means her mum isn't around. It shouldn't take something this grave for Emily to finally feel relaxed within these walls.

"Sorry about the mess, girls." Her dad moves about trying to clear the table until Katie reaches out a hand to stop him.

"Forget it, Dad – we'll clean up, yeah? Just let me throw this stuff upstairs."

Emily shrugs off her bag onto the floor. "Make James take the bags – penance for nearly killing us all on the way here."

"Fuck off – I'm not your houseboy! Besides, that cunting bus should've given me the right-of-way," James protests.

"It's fine, I'll take them," Effy offers, smiling warmly up at Mr. Fitch, which he accepts with a light squeeze to her shoulder cap. "Need the loo anyway."

"There see? Sorted. Ef's fit _and_ helpful," James smiles, raking his eyes over Effy, uninhibited by couth or decorum.

"Which is two up on you, yeah?" Katie counters with a raised eyebrow at her little brother as she cuffs the back of his head, now towering well above her. "Why don't you try and like, clean up after yourself, wormy tosser."

Emily looks up to her dad who seems caught between a proud smile and crushing sadness. "Dad, why don't you lie down on the sofa? I'll make you some tea and help James clean up a bit."

"It's lovely," he says looking between them all. "It's lovely you all filling up the house like this again."

"Yeah, it's good to be home, Dad," Katie answers, Emily having lost her voice behind a knot in her throat.

Once he's left the kitchen and Effy's followed behind Katie up the narrow staircase, Emily slumps into a chair at the table and looks up helplessly at James. "Shit. Is he like this all the time now?"

"Worse." James sits down across from her and fiddles a packet of soy sauce.

"We should've brought more whiskey," she says a bit tiredly, resting her head in her hand.

"Don't worry, sis, whatever you're lacking in distilled rye I can make up for with hydroponic grass." When he smiles, this stupid, childish grin that Emily hasn't seen in lifetimes, she thinks how fortunate – that they didn't end up killing each other back then. Because sat in this moment, she's never been happier to have someone like James next to her.

* * *

"Fucking knocked the bitch on her ass and kicked in her ribs, didn't she Ems?"

"She didn't kick in her ribs," Emily corrects with a smile that would be bashful if she didn't also seem rather fucking proud of herself. "She just sort of throttled her."

"How romantic," Effy nearly sing-songs before taking a long sip of whiskey.

"Yeah, what a catch you've got yourself, Ems." Katie's eyeroll directly counters the sincerity in her voice so Emily lets it slide.

"I think Naomi sounds like fucking aces – long legs, nice tits, and a bruising footie to top it off," James says excitedly, elbowing Emily for reassurance.

"Oi!" She slugs him back. "I never said anything about her tits, you perv."

James shrugs and pulls a spliff from behind his ear. "Yeah, well, I Googled her, alright?"

"You planning on sparking that at the fucking table, moron? I'll enjoy watching Dad kick your arse on this one," Katie says crossing her arms along her chest.

James, undeterred, takes out his lighter. "Nah, he usually burns one with me."

"_What_?" Katie and Emily manage to both ask at the same time. Effy merely grins appreciatively, holding out her hand for the spliff James has just lit.

"Wicked," she says before taking a long drag, exhaling small rings of smoke that float towards the centre of the table.

Just as Katie is pulling the spliff from between Effy's lips, Emily's mobile rings, so loudly it rattles the glasses scattered along the table.

"_Jesus_, Ems, you think you've got your ringer up high enough?" Katie criticizes before taking a petit drag that makes Effy laugh. Katie flips her off in response without looking away from Emily.

"Sorry – just didn't want to miss the call. Fucking mind your own business, yeah?"

"Pretty sure the guards at Buckingham are aware that your girlfriend is ringing you."

"Put Naomi on speaker phone," James suggests. "Bet she's got a fucking sexy phone voice!"

"Fuck off. All of you."

Emily's threat vanishes behind the wave of laughter that follows her down the corridor as she leaves to take the call.

"Hey."

"Hey, you sound a bit better?"

Emily exhales, considering. "Loads, yeah. It's almost – it's almost okay right now," she says with a quick look over her shoulder towards the kitchen.

"Good, yeah that's good."

Emily smiles at the response that's meant to be supportive, even though it registers as something more like displaced frustration.

So she adds, "I mean, aside from the fact that I'm complete shit without you."

After a short laugh, Naomi says, "I didn't used to be like this, you know."

"What – pathetically co-dependent?"

"It's shameful, I know." A few beats pass, the sound of Katie's laughter crackling down the corridor the only real sound in the house. But then Naomi says, "I feel like I should be there."

"Something tells me the lads would have a different opinion when you're benched from the next fixture for missing practice."

"You're not allowed to use pragmatism against me," Naomi sulks. "You should be, I don't know –"

"Begging you to throw away your career in order to come here and hold my hand? I'm not going to do that, Naomi. I already told you," she starts, running a hand through her hair.

"Right, I know. You don't want to 'drag me into this.' Except I _am_ in this, Emily. I'm in this, and I can't just be with you partway. So I just – I just feel like I should be there, okay?"

Emily leans against the wall and tries to stretch her legs along the stair where she's sat. Her legs can't lay flat anymore, the banister against her feet keeping them bent by a few degrees. And somewhere far away, she remembers being small. She remembers needing her mum to patch her knees, to wrap her fractured fingers in splints. She remembers being cared for and that it was okay to need. She remembers being able to sit with her legs laid flat between the banister and the wall.

With a heavy sigh she says, "Yeah, well I wish you were here."

* * *

James is stoned and completely, fucking useless even before midnight so Emily sends him upstairs, following behind to make sure he doesn't like, trip on the way up and wake their dad who's been asleep for hours. Which is when Effy looks over at Katie with something like mischievous desperation.

"What?" Katie's barely managed to say before Effy collides with her lips, pulling at her neck and shoulders until Katie's leant into her, grasping at the table and chair back for support.

She tastes like oaky bourbon barrels and nicotine, her tongue pushing soft moans into Katie's mouth.

"Jesus _Christ_," Katie breathes out once Effy pulls back, wipes her thumb along Katie's bottom lip and smirks in satisfaction. "Remind me how we're meant to share a room with Emily again without me like, molesting you the second we get near a bed?"

"I'm sharing a bed with Emily." Effy answers softly, evenly. Kisses her jawline, then her neck. "Because I don't trust you to keep your hands to yourself."

"Right. Fair enough," Katie concedes before slipping her hands up Effy's thighs and leaning over to finish the kiss they'd started.

"Alternately," Effy says a few moments later when Katie's hands have roamed significantly towards the elastic of her knickers. "We could just clue her in so you can finish up whatever it is you're planning to do under my skirt."

Katie retracts her hands slowly, raking her fingers along the skin of Effy's thighs, exhales in frustration and leans back to sip the fucking whiskey she's been suffering through all night. Fucking a girl or not, she refuses to bend to this particular lezzah tradition. Still, after enough refills, it goes down easily enough.

"It's not the right time. Not with, you know, everything else," Katie admits, looking apologetically back at Effy, who's been cruelly teased to the brink at this point.

"Fair enough," she says, leaning back and crossing her legs. A position which, coincidentally, does fuck-all for Katie's self-restraint.

So it's with an exasperated sigh that Katie insists, "And could you at least like, _try_ to look less fuckable?"

* * *

She sees the taxi first, the unmistakable blonde hair second. Emily's rounded onto her parent's street and stops abruptly as Naomi looks up, making eye contact. They stand like that – just a hundred metres apart and unmoving – until Naomi finally shrugs heavily, her expression completely defeated.

And then her feet are just carrying her, jogging steadily until she's collided into Naomi's frame, until their arms are wrapped tightly around each other. Naomi's nose is cold against her neck but her breath warm, her grasp unrelenting.

"You're an idiot," Emily says into her neck, refusing to lessen her hold.

So when Naomi laughs, "I love you too," it's felt directly against her shoulder.

* * *

James, being James, welcomes Naomi into the Fitch home with inappropriate sexual advances until Katie elbows his stomach.

"Shit! You're hotter than the images my mate Gordon photoshopped of you wearing only knickers! Fuckin' hell, Ems – nice work, yeah?"

"_James_, could you at least pretend to be like, a normal fucking person for once?" Katie chides, her elbow to his gut doing little damage.

"Um, thanks?" Naomi says awkwardly, making sure Emily's kept between her and James. Like she's fearful he could just lurch towards her at any moment. And, actually, it's not all that impossible.

Katie and James are wearing pyjamas, as they all linger near the front door, but Effy's nowhere to be seen.

"Sleeping beauty still in bed?" Emily asks, wrapping both arms around Naomi's waist so that her head rests on her chest.

"Uh, yeah. Yup," Katie answers distractedly glancing up the staircase. When she looks back to catch Naomi's curiously amused expression, she stutters a laugh, "Fucking lazy slag. Even my bribe of tea and toast didn't wake her."

Emily scrunches her face, "Toast? I wouldn't fucking rise and shine for toast either. The least you could do is whip up some pancakes, yeah?" She looks up for Naomi's approval when Katie launches into a wild coughing fit.

"You alright, Katie?" Naomi reaches out, laying a few soft pats against Katie's shoulder blade.

Katie nods violently before heading down the corridor towards the kitchen. "Water – just need water," she says over her shoulder.

Emily is about to pull Naomi down for a long-awaited kiss when she feels eyes still on her.

"Bugger off, you fucking perv!" She kicks a leg towards James that he dodges easily. "Christ, you're twisted. Why don't you put the kettle on or do _something_ useful?"

James finally disappears into the sitting room – no doubt ignoring Emily's suggestion and resuming his role as a useless wanker. But nothing else much matters when Naomi looks down at her and smiles. Emily pulls herself up with the help of Naomi's jacket lapels and the sigh she loses is audible because the kiss is soft and sweet and everything she needed but for which she didn't want to ask.

"So, this is – I mean, is it okay that I'm here?" Naomi asks when they've separated by mere millimetres.

Emily shakes her head but kisses her again with a bit more urgency.

Naomi smiles when she pulls away, "Sending me some mixed signals here, Em."

"You shouldn't have come," Emily's brow furrows even as she places kisses onto Naomi's neck. "But I'm _really _fucking glad you did."

Naomi closes her eyes, grabs to the sides of Emily's jogging shirt and thin jacket because her earlobe is now being tugged by a set of insistent teeth. She clears her throat and asks a bit shakily, "Good run then?"

"Mmmm," the vibrations of Emily's answer, she feels against her neck. When Emily pulls back, taking one step towards the staircase while threading together their fingers, her eyes are glossed black. "Yeah, but now I really need a shower."

Emily's managed to pull them inside a room that is so narrow, it barely makes sense that they both fit, standing side-by-side. Only after the door has clicked shut, does Naomi start to protest.

"Em, no. _No_!" she whispers harshly, even as Emily's smile turns lecherous and she's already removed Naomi's scarf and bulky overcoat. "Not in your _parents'_ house, for fuck's sake. Christ – I haven't even met your dad!"

"He's already left for hospice."

"Ems," she practically whines, "I literally can't do this without feeling incredibly –"

"Naomi, I love you, but please shut the fuck up and take off your clothes." Emily pulls off her jogging clothes, leaving them in a sweaty, crumpled mess on the bathroom floor. She turns towards the taps and starts the shower.

Only once she's satisfied with the temperature does she turn to face Naomi, still clinging nervously to the hem of her shirt. A smirk slides over her mouth when she crosses her arms and cocks an eyebrow. Waiting, _daring_ Naomi to not give in. When her poor, flustered girlfriend looks away, tormented by her silly moral code, Emily knows she's won and pulls back on the shower curtain.

"See you in there," she winks, Naomi's stuttered protest drowned out by the sound of water rushing over her head.

For the first thirty seconds, Naomi refuses to look at her – just stands there with her arms crossed and scowls at the tiling.

"You're going to refuse to enjoy this now, are you?"

"We're fighting," Naomi answers quickly, still glaring at the wall.

"Oh. Good to know," Emily nods slowly, placing both hands on Naomi's hipbones and giving them a small squeeze. "Any way I can get you to forgive me?" She takes a step closer and smiles when Naomi tenses.

"Don't smile at me." And she does look at her then, the blue of her eyes nearly unseen for how narrow she's made them.

Emily shrugs, fanning her hands along Naomi's stomach before sliding them around to her arse. "Have it your way then." She fixes her face into a serious expression – trying desperately to keep a grin from resurfacing – before leaning in, breathing kisses onto Naomi's collarbone.

She's got a nipple in her mouth, massaging it with her tongue until it perks to a point when she hears Naomi breath out, '_Shit_,' and can't help the smile that forms as a result. Craning her neck a bit, she can see Naomi's head thrown back, her eyes closed; but when the nipple play halts, Naomi looks down at her sharply to see the smile still playing at her lips.

"Oh right, we're not meant to be enjoying ourselves," she clears her throat, fixes her face again in a frown, "since we're _fighting_ and all."

Naomi is saying, "I _hate_ it when you don't play fair," even as she takes Emily's face with both hands and kisses her with such force, they nearly tumble backwards in the slick tub.

With a few careful shuffles, Emily manages to get Naomi under the shower head without losing contact with her mouth.

"Try not to wake the neighbours, yeah?" And before Naomi's had a chance to process it, Emily's dipped down and slid her tongue against her clit.

Her knees will suffer for this later, pressed down against the hard porcelain for as long as it takes Naomi to come, but the fucking anticipation of feeling her pulse against her tongue beats out everything else. Every time.

Naomi starts to string together profanity with the kind of originality Emily's grown to love and grips the back of Emily's head with one hand, her other keeping steady against the wall.

When she's coming, when the pulsing starts to roll across Emily's tongue, Naomi just says 'fuck' over and over so quickly and so restrained, it's a wonder how she's able to stand upright at all. She grabs for Emily's shoulders, the minute she's finished and kisses any remnants clean off her lips and tongue. Pushes Emily up against the tile and fucks her so hard and quick, Emily leaves bite marks on her shoulder to keep from screaming out.

Afterwards, Naomi is lathering soap on her back, massaging the muscles in her shoulders, when Emily asks, "Just to be clear – are we still fighting?"

Which is how she ends up getting fucked, not once but _twice_, in so much as fifteen minutes.

* * *

Feeling significantly relaxed after the shower and dressed in fresh clothes, Naomi is practically bounding up the stairs letting the following refrain run through her head: _top left drawer, bureau on the left_. Emily's feet had chilled stood on the tiled kitchen floor while making breakfast and so she had requested socks. And as Naomi was, in general, willing to do whatever it may be that Emily's asks [though in particular, post-shower sex, she was practically, fucking eager to fetch the bloody socks], she'd run upstairs to the twins room rather quickly.

And, comparably – in consideration of the shower and all – it's a fairly innocent position in which to find them because it's not like they're _naked_ or anything. Except that it seems rather obvious that the less innocent bits had happened prior to Naomi barging through the door.

"Christ! Shit – _fuck_ – fuck, sorry," she stammers like a proper mong, trying to leave as quickly as she came in only to realise if she returns without the socks, she'll have to explain _why_. So, facing awkwardly towards the far wall, she finally says, "Uh, socks? I just need to grab some socks for Emily."

"Top drawer on the left, that bureau to your left," Katie says almost lazily.

She chances a glance over her shoulder to find they haven't moved from where she'd found them. Effy laid back flat and Katie on her side next to her, their legs and hands and arms just sort of loosely tangled, and Katie's head propped up by her hand.

"Thanks," she says without actually moving for several seconds until Katie raises her eyebrows expectantly, and Naomi realises she's lingering, completely fucking dumbstruck. "Right, thanks."

Once she's grabbed the socks and made her way back to the door, she pauses again to look back at them with a bit less shock. "So, this is happening then?"

Katie doesn't look at her, her eyes locked up with Effy's like she'd never intruded on them at all. And Effy just smiles, fucking _smiles_ like she's looking at a litter of new-born pups or something.

"Emily doesn't know, so you know, keep it schtum for now, will you?" Katie asks when she's finally looked back up at her, though it doesn't sound like much of a request. So Naomi nods quickly.

"Yeah, of course. Well, um, breakfast is almost ready so …"

"We'll be right down," Effy says. "Thanks, Naomi."

When she's latched the door shut behind her, Naomi leans back against the wall, exhales. Tosses the balled socks up in the air before catching them again and smiling with a slow shake of her head. "Fucking hell," she says and heads back down the stairs.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Also - just in case you were curious, I did manage to churn out another little something while I was neglecting this piece. It's a Keffy one-shot and [brace yourself for the shameless plug here] it's called A Thousand Ships. Give it a read if you like and - if you're feeling generous - let me know what you think, yeah?


	19. Chapter 19: Playing for a Draw

A light rain has started, it's quiet pattering against the roof and windows the only real sound. She watches Emily's jittery hands – anxiously picking away at the skin around her cuticles. Tentatively, she places a hand over them and the fidgeting stops, but Emily's eyes stay trained on the headrest in front of her. The heat's been gone for quite some time and James took the fucking keys so the windows have all fogged over, their breaths the only warmth left in the car.

Naomi looks towards the building again – or what she can still see of it through the cloudy glass – and thinks, a petit cottage with warm, red shutters has never looked so ominous. When a sudden chill runs up her spine, she exhales, further fogging the window pane.

Emily doesn't go inside that first day. Doesn't even make an attempt to exit the car, and instead ends up leant into Naomi's chest. An awkward comfort as Naomi clutches her frame that never quite relaxes.

She sighs, knowing she could never be Effy – who would offer sage wisdom, her calm demeanour acting like a soothing balm against agitation.

Nor could she ever hope to replace Katie – who understands Emily on a purely biological level, the way their brains still seem to tick along at the same rate. Tuned into the same waves that Naomi could never expect to access.

It feels like a failure when they're driving back to Emily's childhood home. When Katie's eyes are reddened from tears and Emily's face remains stoic and empty.

And she doesn't know how to handle defeat in lesser arenas let alone in light of the hospice – facing the dying mother of the girl she loves – so Naomi fights inner battles to stay strong. To not shut down in the face of adversity. It's instinctual anyway, so long as she distances herself a bit from Emily, who seems to be collapsing in on herself. Naomi is meant to be a rock of support – something steadfast against which Emily can rest. Except Emily is also her weakness. Something about the curve of her mouth, the smell of her hair, the voice behind her eyes – something Naomi has never really been able to pinpoint. So she's often left helpless, weakened, by the one person who needs her most. And it's fucked up, that.

* * *

Katie smokes, apparently. Either a development brought about by shagging Effy or something she's simply never before noticed. Naomi can't be sure.

"Emily's mum's favourite, you know." Katie seems to be speaking to her, though she doesn't make eye contact. Taps the end of her fag into the ashtray before taking another drag.

Naomi doesn't respond, keeps her eyes on Katie, who seems to be musing more than anything. The night air in Pembroke is chilled and moist. The way cold weather seeps into your skin and bones when the ocean is nearby.

"Parents tend to do that with twins, you know – split them up like that. This one's mine, that one's yours," she smirks, gesturing with her hands like she's handing out sweets.

"Kind of fucked up, no?" Naomi asks.

"I don't know – kind of makes sense, I guess." Katie shrugs before looking at her for the first time since they ended up at the same patio table in the Fitch's back garden. "With the sports and my dad's obsession with fitness you would have thought …" she trails off, pulling another long drag.

"Yeah," Naomi agrees, nodding as if she's had full access to Emily's family history all this time instead of just recently starting to piece things together.

"So it was worse when she, you know, came out – because mum had to take the brunt of it and all."

"She didn't take it well?"

Katie coughs a laugh and shakes her head curtly. As if this is the biggest understatement Naomi's ever made.

"But … why?" And it's something that's been at her for some time. Controlling parents, sure, she's seen loads of them, being immersed in sports from so early on. But debilitating your child because of their sexuality didn't compute, didn't make sense logistically. Didn't make sense to someone like Naomi.

"Don't know – tradition? Normalcy? Fear of the unknown?" Katie lists off in a way that's practiced, like she's tried to sort it for so long she's got the theories memorised. "Negative reactions are all pretty similar when it comes to change within the sphere of your familiar, aren't they?"

"Christ, you've really been spending too much time with Effy, haven't you?"

Katie laughs at that, stubs out her fag into the tray and watches like she expects Naomi to continue her train of thought.

"None of that matters now though, does it?" she finally says.

And Katie smiles something terribly sad, like Naomi's just given the right answer to a question Katie never wanted to ask.

"It's good you showed up, Naomi."

And it doesn't take much interpretation to realise Katie isn't just talking about Pembroke.

* * *

When she wakes, her senses are on point immediately. Sleep and exhaustion gone completely, she blinks twice at the ceiling before rolling her head to the left. Naomi's breathing is even, heavy. Emily slides easily from under the bed covers, grabs two articles of clothing from the floor and makes it to the bathroom before Effy reaches for her.

They stare at each other in the dim light of the corridor without speaking. It's never really been necessary anyway, Emily thinks. As if their monosyllabic first meeting all those years ago just served as the precursor to their entire relationship. So when they're clicking seatbelts around their waists in James' shitty motor and still haven't said a word to each other, it's actually far less awkward than it would seem.

After a few minutes, Effy lights a fag and rolls down the window a fraction – cold, fresh air, mixing with the warmed and smoky interior.

"I don't even know that they'll let us in," Emily says once they've pulled up to the front entrance. She keeps her eyes forward, her hands gripped to the steering wheel.

"Fuck it – we'll talk our way inside if we have to," Effy says, smiling once Emily looks over at her. And every nerve relaxes momentarily.

"Fuck it?" Emily echoes with less enthusiasm.

"Yeah," Effy nods with confidence. "Fuck it."

As it turns out, visiting hours are a thing of hospital TV drama, or at the very least, inapplicable to hospice care. Because upon entering the posh furnishings of the lobby, Emily and Effy are quickly escorted down a darkened corridor towards the patient rooms. The front desk clerk is even happy to give them a tour's guide to the café [serving breakfast from 7-9:00] and the library, before stopping cheerily outside room 208. Which is when the blood ceases to circulate Emily's body, her hands and feet feeling instantly cold and tingly.

"Call me if you need anything, love." The desk clerk squeezes her shoulder, offers the kind of sad smile she'd always associated with the nursing staff at Effy's hospital, then heads off the way they came.

Effy leans into the wall, eyes her with something less than expectancy, because Effy's glances are always either _more_ or _less_ than the intensity you expect them to be.

"She's your mum, Emily. No matter what else happens, that much doesn't stop being true."

Emily watches her, lets her hand dangle loosely on the door handle. "Right." Then, with a loud sigh, pushes through.

The room isn't completely dark, the soft glow of a lamp in the far corner enough for Emily to make her way towards the bed. She's asleep, her mum, her breathing heavy and ragged. But her face looks calm, not pained the way Emily had imagined it might. Still, the sight of her – so thin, so pale she's nearly grey – hits her so hard, the effects are instant. Emily clamps hard onto her lips and looks away, tears brimming her eyes for only seconds before rolling down her cheeks, even as her hands graze the foot of the bed.

Five years had gone by in a breath, and now that she's able to be back in the same room, she finds only a fraction of the woman she remembers. Her face sallow, her dark hair thin and wispy where it's grown back since stopping the chemo. Since stopping treatment of any kind, save for the pain medicine. And it's cruel, Emily thinks, that the body finds ways to rejuvenate even in its approach to the end.

She lowers herself into a chair beside the bed and watches. Doesn't reach out to feel the warmth of her mother's hand, just watches. Doesn't say anything. Just watches.

* * *

Four hours later, Emily sits beside Effy out front of the cottage while her cigarette smoke wafts through the early morning air. The sun has barely broken over the treeline, but clouds cover everything, low fog still sitting between the buildings, just above street level. Grey skies leak onto surfaces of concrete and iron, of aluminium and rubber, until everything resonates the same hue. Until every surface is just a continuation of the one beside it.

"You okay?" Effy asks after a time.

Emily pauses before answering, "It's hard to see her." She means, it's hard to see her eaten away by cancer, thinned down to skin and bones from treatments that didn't work. It's hard to see the skeleton of someone you used to know, still breathing. Still holding onto a life that's all but over.

Though she also means, it's hard to see her again after so much time. After so much has gone unsaid.

But Effy never needs clarification. "I know." And she's maybe the only person who does.

They're quiet again, the street so peaceful at this hour Emily can actually hear Effy's cigarette crackling as it turns to ash with every inhale.

It stays quiet for long minutes before Emily stands and glares out into the empty street. "Let's get breakfast and go home."

* * *

Naomi is awake just before six, like clockwork. Runs her hand over the side of the bed once occupied by Emily before registering how cool the sheets feel beneath her touch. She sits up suddenly as if the possibility of Emily being abducted while sleeping right beside her is actually, fucking plausible.

Which is when she hears Katie groan, "They've fucked off."

"What? When?"

"Early – hours ago. You didn't wake?" Katie rubs her hands across her eyes. "I sleep like the fucking dead and even I felt Effy get up."

Pacifying unease, apparently not Katie's strong suit.

"No, I didn't," is all she can manage, feeling her throat swell with an emotion that can't be identified.

She watches as Katie stretches, noisily, before slipping from under blankets and sheets and pauses at the edge of the bed where she's sat. A smirk plays at the corner of her mouth as she tucks strands of hair behind her ears.

"Emily wasn't exaggerating then."

"What?" Naomi asks, suddenly feeling very defensive.

"You've got an impressively deep scowl when you're thinking too hard."

"I haven't," she argues, only deepening her scowl that much more.

"Come on then, grumpy," Katie grabs her hand from off the mattress, pulls a bit until Naomi's legs hang over the edge of the bed. "I need a fucking coffee."

* * *

"So, what's the arrangement with your schedule exactly?" Katie asks before blowing the steam from her cup. "I know you're facing semifinals, yeah?"

Naomi sips her coffee when it's still far too hot and rightly burns the fuck out of her tongue; but she swallows back a mouthful anyway because it feels better than answering the question.

"I didn't make any arrangements exactly." She says it slowly, eyeing Emily's twin over the rim of her cup.

"So when you get back?"

"I'll sort it," she answers, with as much nonchalance as she can manage for all the panic suddenly coursing through her.

Leaving London had been easy – a simple transaction at the station. Her destination clearly mapped and obvious: Emily. Being so spontaneous with her support, it had almost felt novel at the time, exciting even. Riding the train, she'd known – just _known_ without doubt or apprehension that she was headed in the right direction. For once, plans and schedules be damned, someone else would come first. It'd been the only option.

But something was stirring now, sickly turning in her gut as Katie eyes her sceptically from across the table. When it came down to it – when Emily had needed to get away, escape from her busy head or recurring nightmares – she'd reached for someone else.

And it wasn't jealousy she was feeling – that emotion being far too simplistic. She practically _wishes_ it were jealousy.

It feels like something more. Something bigger – something she doesn't want to define just yet, until she's had a chance to talk with Emily. Something she doesn't really want to define at all, for fear it will break them entirely.

They continue to sip their coffee in silence, Naomi's mind racing with thoughts of Emily and Effy and death and reliance and habits and need and connections and love. She doesn't think about football and practice and championships and success and drive and responsibility.

"My guess is they'll be back pretty soon," Katie finally says after what feels like hours. But her coffee is barely half gone and still warm so chances are it's been less than.

"Do you know where they went?"

"Probably to hospice." Katie says it carefully, like she's waiting to gauge Naomi's reaction.

And Naomi nods because it's as she suspected; and the mole hill she'd been hoping for doubles in size. It's not yet a mountain, but her heart sinks a bit under its weight just the same.

"Emily always does things at her own pace, you know? She's a bit defiant, a bit over-calculated. A bit more like our mum than she'd ever fucking admit."

"I guess I just thought that when she was ready …" Naomi runs her finger along the rim of her cup with no intention of finishing her thought.

"The thing is, Emily never asks for much – hardly asks for anything at all, really. Which is why her and Effy have always been a little bit kismet. Because with Effy, she's never had to – they just sort of work that way, you know?"

Naomi sighs, loudly, her face bent again in thought until she feels Katie's touch along her arm. Looks up to see her warm smile and eyes that are nearly the ones with which she's fallen in love.

"It's _also_ why," she continues once Naomi has worked most of the scowl off her brow, "you being here is pretty, fucking major. Considering everything Ems has told me about you – your _love_ of the game and all." And Naomi can't even hate her for the way Katie rolls her eyes on the word 'love.' "It says a lot – not just that you put everything else aside to be here for her, but that she _let_ you be here for her."

"But, she hasn't. I mean, that's just it, isn't it? I came here, unasked because I know no matter how helpless she feels, Emily would never _ever_ ask me to be here." Naomi bites down hard on the inside of her cheek before continuing. "I just feel a bit out-of-place at the moment. Knowing she didn't need me the way I'd imagined."

"Well, you're about three years too late to the fucking party, aren't you?" There's no malice laced in her words, but Naomi looks up at Katie sharply just the same. "I really like you, Naomi. And my sister is fucking, retardedly in love with you _obviously_, but you can't feel slighted because of a relationship that's existed long before you were ever in the picture. It's just the way it works, okay?"

"And if it were you instead of me?" Naomi asks, suddenly feeling rather kindred with Katie Fitch.

"What do you mean?"

"If Effy's mum were sick and she leant on Emily – went to her for support instead of you – you'd just accept it as 'the way it works?'"

"Effy's mum is dead," Katie answers quickly, softly, and into her coffee mug, refusing to make eye contact again for several long seconds. "You can't control someone's reliance on you, yeah? Can't force them to need you when it's convenient or when you think it'll make _you_ feel better. That's not how it works, is it?"

It's an awful thing to admit – that she'd hoped Emily would open up to her immediately, that she would need her so badly, so desperately, that leaving the squad in the lurch just before championships would pale in comparison. Except that didn't happen, not exactly. And now she's left questioning a decision that seemed so crystal at the time. It's an awful thing to admit, but true nonetheless.

"You think I'm a shit girlfriend," she poses, chancing a look up at Katie.

"No, you're not a shit girlfriend. You left a rather inflexible life just to be here for her, and I think you did it because you honestly want to be here _for her_."

It's true – she did, she does. "I do," she says, though her sincerity, it's layered in trepidation.

"Then you've _got_ to let go of your expectations, babe. Be here for her, or go home. But don't hang around waiting to hold her hand if you're just going to end up resenting her for it." Katie pauses, sighs, and softens her smile. "Okay?"

Naomi stares at her in consideration, but as she's about to respond, the front door opens and every word is sucked out of her mouth at the sound of footsteps and hushed voices.

Emily enters the kitchen first, carrying coffees in paper cups, her eyes tired when they find Naomi's. Effy is right behind her, bringing take-away bags and the smell of bacon.

"Hey," Emily's voice scratches as she sets down a tray of coffee on the table. She brushes back blonde curls from Naomi's face, kisses her forehead.

"Hi," she manages, feeling instantly better _and_ worse when Emily slips their hands together and squeezes lightly.

And Emily must sense it – whatever unease keeps circulating through her – just by being in contact or maybe just by being in the same room. Because, apparently, having heightened perceptivity of those around you is just a fucking by-product of time spent with Effy Stonem.

"Dad still asleep?"

Katie nods, turns to watch Effy breaking open containers of omelettes. "Want some help, Ef?" Effy doesn't even respond before Katie's up from the table, moving towards her. Naomi watches them intently, something about it all trying to work itself out in her cluttered head.

Emily looks back to her, wags their joined hands back and forth a few times before saying quietly, "Will you come with me for a minute?"

So Naomi stands, follows Emily through a door off the kitchen she'd not before noticed, Katie's words of warning still echoing loudly in her ears.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wanted to say a quick thanks to some really excellent guest reviewers - I think you're all aces: lizurd, Ashby, Naomilyfan, goosewriter. I'm sure there are more that I'm forgetting but my memory fails me. So thanks, thanks, thanks!

I felt like adding some complexity to Naomi's character which, up until this point, has just been 'rather, fucking wonderful,' to quote the one and only Gina Campbell. Hope you'll stick with her while she sorts it all out. Bit of a short update without much sunshine and roses, but the subject matter is, well, not very sunny. Be back soon - cheers!


	20. Chapter 20: Decision

Once the door snaps shut behind them, Emily's hand pulls away and Naomi's eyes begin to circulate around the room. It's small with no windows. Shelving lines two of the walls and the hospital bed – unmistakably bulky and starched white – is pushed up against a third. Naomi leans back, sandwiching her hands between the wall and her bum while Emily scans the shelves.

She swallows hard, thinks about jumping in headfirst and without restraint, but instead hears herself saying, "Bit cramped."

Emily turns to look at her with the flutter of a smile. "This used to be my darkroom. Not quite built for living quarters, but then …" her voice trails off as she turns back to the shelves, scanning now with her fingers as well.

Naomi bites down hard on her lip and nearly winces when it feels like the skin might break. "But then?"

Emily's pulled out what look to be large photo albums, their covers smoothed and worn and faded in colour. She's had to crouch down onto her haunches to find them on the lower shelves, and she doesn't look up when she finally answers. "Oh, you know, she couldn't manage the stairs after awhile so …"

Naomi pushes a breath through her nose and shrugs, "No, I don't know." Which is when Emily _does_ look up at her.

"What?"

"I don't know anything about her, Emily. I don't know why you stopped coming back here. I don't know how long she's been sick. And I don't know why you cringe when she's mentioned. I have no idea how badly you were hurt, _are_ hurt, because you won't tell me. I don't –" she shakes her head and looks away when her eyes start to sting – "I don't know anything."

"What do you want me to do, Naomi? Sit down and hash out my sordid, fucking past with you? Do you want me to tell you where it hurts so you can make it better? So you can fix it?" And if she weren't so exhausted, she'd probably sound confrontational.

"I want you to _trust_ me. I keep trying to be there for you – since the very, fucking beginning – but it's not easy when you're constantly shutting me out."

"There are just things I can't –" Emily exhales, falls back against the shelving until her head's leant back and closes her eyes "—I don't talk about them anymore, okay?"

She wants to keep things from getting ugly. Wants to keep herself from getting carried away by her emotions. So Naomi just nods, clamps down her jaw and sets it tight to keep the words _Not even with Effy?_ from spilling out of her mouth. Instead, she says the next worse thing.

"I've got to head back to London today."

"Oh." Her head snaps back up when she says it and she's wearing an expression Naomi's never before seen.

She eyes the wall just above the bed's headrest where a window should be and keeps her voice even. "Yeah, I think if I make it back for practice tomorrow, I could still play against Turbine."

Emily won't look at her, she can tell that much just from her peripheral. Her eyes stay downward as she rubs a thumb against the smooth surface of the photo album she's still clutching. She clears her throat before saying without any conviction, "That's true – you can't miss that match."

Naomi looks across the room – which can't possibly span more than a handful of metres – and feels a chasm echoing between them. When Emily finally looks up, her eyes have gone from tired to sad and empty. And it's a look that, quite unfortunately, Naomi knows very well.

"Stay for breakfast?"

With a bit of effort, she's able to work back the knot in her throat and smiles, "Of course."

Emily turns and slides the album back into place.

"What was that?" Naomi asks weakly.

She feels Emily's hand slipping back into hers when she attempts to mirror Naomi's pathetic smile and says, "Nothing."

* * *

It's nearly eight when the four of them are finishing up an awful breakfast full of long silences and shitty omelettes. Which is when Katie and Emily's father clomps down the stairs and into the kitchen, kissing both daughters atop their heads before turning first to smile at Effy then to Naomi. His eyes are warm and his smile looks genuine but Naomi's stomach churns just the same.

"Dad, this is my girlfriend, Naomi."

"Hello dear," he says taking her hand with a gentle squeeze.

"Hi, it's really good to meet you," she smiles. His eyes crinkle when he smiles in return.

"Emsy, how are you feeling today? Katie?" He looks between them, squinting like he's trying to assess a broken automobile.

"We're fine, dad," Katie answers. "Did you sleep?"

"A bit," he says and shuffles towards the fridge.

"I'm just going to head up," Naomi whispers as she leans over to Emily, who nods quickly then looks back at her plate of cold eggs. Excusing herself as quietly as possible, Naomi tries to ignore the heat she feels in her neck and cheeks from Katie's glare that seems to follow her out of the room.

* * *

She's pulling the zip on her bag when Emily comes into the room, moving silently towards the bed where Katie and Effy had slept. She sits so that when Emily reaches the bed they're sat across a small gap from one another. Naomi sighs, looks over at her bag and pulls at a loose string.

"Do you know when the next coach leaves?"

"Looks like they leave pretty regularly," she waves her phone, clutched in her right hand.

"Right," Emily says softly. "I'll drive you." It's not a question, but Naomi knows Emily's asking her.

"No," she shakes her head. "I've called a taxi." Then looks at Emily and frowns, "You should try and get some sleep, Em."

"Easier said than done."

It's quiet then for several minutes, Naomi's mind spinning madly, her nerves frayed making her feel like she's going to sweat through her clothes. But then Katie's peaked her head into the room and, after looking at them both for only a beat, says carefully, "There's a taxi outside."

* * *

Emily lays in bed without sleeping. Watches the colours in the room change as the sun moves across the sky. Her head feels completely mental from trying to process what's already happened – what's _going_ to happen in a short time – on very little sleep. Her skin starts to crawl like she's got bugs scattering under its surface, so she throws all the blankets off her and rubs her hands violently over her face.

When Katie comes in the room, she's less quiet and careful than she'd been before. Just stalks over to the bed where Emily's laid out in her boy shorts and a vest top and rolls her eyes.

"Get dressed."

"I'm sleeping," she says, clearly very awake.

Katie picks up a pair of jeans off the floor and throws them in Emily's direction.

"What the _fuck_, Katie!"

"Look, you're getting dressed then we're driving to Cardiff so you can stop your girlfriend from getting on a bloody train because you need her, okay?"

"Katie, I –"

"You _need_ her, Ems." Katie takes a step towards her, pushes a shirt on top of the jeans sitting on Emily's legs. "So stop fucking pushing her away because people," Katie sighs and flips her hair behind an ear, "people don't stick around forever."

She raises an eyebrow when Emily doesn't answer and instead seems to trip over her the words caught in her throat.

She wants to tell Katie she's wrong – that she doesn't need Naomi like that. That she loves her, craves her like she's oxygen, for fuck's sake, but that she isn't willing to let Naomi hold her together. That she already has people in her life that pick up her broken pieces when they crumble out of her; and it's not what she wants Naomi to be.

"Cardiff is like two, fucking hours from here, Katie, and mum –"

Katie shakes her head definitively, "Mum's going to stay put, and I'm driving so we'll get there in less than two hours, then we'll grab Naomi so she can get back here and hold your hand like she's fucking meant to." She's back at the bedroom door by the time Emily's worked up a response.

"Katie, I don't fucking –"

"And anyway, Effy can't sleep in your bed tonight whether we manage to catch Naomi in time or not because she's …"

Emily's standing now, holding both the jeans and top and staring at her sister with a palpable expectancy. "Because she's what?"

She looks away, Katie does, and watches her hand as it fiddles the door knob. "Because I fucking need her too, okay?"

Her face creased and her mouth suddenly gone dry when Emily finally says very softly, "Yeah, okay."

"I'll be in the car." And then, with a tone that sounds much more like the twin she's always known, "And hurry the fuck up, will you?"

When Emily shouts, "I'm not fucking going!" it's to the sound of Katie forcefully closing the bedroom door.

* * *

Halfway to the train station in Cardiff, she'd completely lost it. Sobbed into her scarf and mittens until her face was a reddened, puffy mess. She's righted herself now, watching the scenery shift outside the large coach window she's sat against. She's also stopped checking her phone every other minute – which had been a combination of her neuroses both hoping to hear from Emily and wondering if Emily should be hoping to hear from her.

She'd typed up a dozen different texts before deleting them all. She'd let her finger hover over the call button a thousand different times before finally turning the damn thing off altogether and resumed to biting the tip of her thumbnail.

When the driver announces their arrival at Cardiff Central, Naomi clutches to her bag and readies to debark. As the brakes pop and hiss, bringing this leg of her return trip to an end, she reaches inside her pocket and turns on her mobile again.

A message from Katie simultaneously floods her with relief and panic. But the message is cryptic enough she half-suspects Effy to be the culprit.

_Don't get on the train._

* * *

James' car smells like sweaty feet and old spliff, but she couldn't very well send their father off to hospice in this piece of shit so they'd just have to make do. Plus, Effy's rather consistently lighting up new fags which tend to mask the stench with something more bearable.

Emily's sulking in the back seat and she looks about as defiant as she always has when being forced into doing something against her will. Katie watches her for a quick second, from the rear view mirror – smiles a bit at her pouty lip and knitted brow. _Still the same fucking, petulant toddler_, she thinks.

Effy turns around in her seat and holds both hands, closed loosely into fists, out to Emily with a smirk. "Pick one."

Emily scowls at her, swats away her hands and returns her glare to the window. Effy, not one to be deterred easily, brings her hands back to their position and repeats, "Pick one," with a raised eyebrow.

When Emily huffs and opens her palm without actually engaging in Effy's game, a small blue pill drops from Effy's left hand.

"What the fuck, Effy – I don't want this." She pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, trying to force it back to Effy.

"Relax, Emily. It's just something to help you sleep." Effy's voice it so placid, Katie knows it'll make her sister explode.

"I don't _want_ to fucking sleep. I don't want your fucking pills. And I don't want to be in this sodding car for two fucking hours!"

So fucking predictable.

"Suit yourself," Effy shrugs, but tosses a bottle of water into the backseat anyway.

"Take the pill, Ems. And take, like, a deep breath while you're at it, _Christ_."

Another ten minutes go by before Katie watches her sister's reflection as Emily pops the pill and takes two long gulps of water.

* * *

The station is mad with people, and Naomi wanders around a bit flustered without knowing where to go for nearly twenty minutes. When she finally has her ticket in hand and is sat near her platform, she takes out her phone to read over the message again.

She wants to know if something's happened. If Emily's asked for her or if Jenna – but it's not the sort of thing you type out in a useless text message. So she rings Katie instead. Clenches and unclenches her hand into a fist as she waits for an answer.

* * *

Effy traces the lines of her palm that she's holding in her other hand, resting on her thigh, and turns partway in her seat so she can watch her drive.

"What are you looking at?" Katie sort of laughs.

"The landscape, obviously." And when Katie chances a look in her direction, Effy's gaze drifts down the length of her body and back up to meet her eyes.

"My sister's in the car, perv."

"She's asleep." Effy turns to look at Emily who had taken all of eight minutes to crash into a heavy slumber after finally giving in and taking the damn pill. "Rather noisily," she comments as a loud snore escapes Emily's lips. "And I thought you were bad."

"I don't snore, you fucking cow!" Katie yells in a whisper, moves her hand to squeeze Effy's knee.

Effy laughs and pulls back Katie's hand so she can resume her tracing patterns.

"Think they'll work it out then?"

Katie sighs, catches another look at Emily curled against the seat with her hands tucked under her chin. "They fucking better."

* * *

"What am I meant to say to her?"

They're in a carpark just outside the station and why Emily's wasting time trying to like, plan a speech or something, makes no fucking sense.

"She's _your_ girlfriend – how the fuck should I know?" Her exasperated retort does fuck-all to get Emily moving towards the entrance and instead launches a full-blown argument.

"Well, this is _your_ grand scheme, Katie. I just figured you had the whole, damn thing planned!"

"I should have known better than to think that maybe some sleep would make you less of a total bitch."

When Emily gears up to retaliate, Effy finally steps in-between them. Says calmly, "I think you know what to say to her, Em."

And the twins exhale, Katie remembering just then that Effy always says the right thing and she'll have to learn to like, keep her mouth shut more often.

* * *

Emily scans the departures, locates the platform for Paddington, and heads off in the direction where she expects to find Naomi.

She doesn't quite feel anxious and thinks whatever the fuck Effy gave her to sleep no doubt has other, soothing side effects, because she feels rather calm. Sort of blanketed by a sense of resolve. When she sees her, it's from behind. Just a head of blonde curls, falling down from where she's tied it back with an elastic. She's sat on a bench that's occupied by another woman and her son. Naomi's head is bowed, but when the little boy drives his toy car along the back of the bench and onto her shoulder, Naomi just turns to him and smiles. The boy giggles, Naomi's smile broadens and everything within a ten kilometre radius melts around them.

And this is the person she's kept at arm's length.

She wants to watch her like this, from a distance, because there's something lovely about it. But she also knows she can't. Not anymore. Because things aren't always lovely – they don't stay wrapped up in pretty packages, untouched. Life gets torn apart, and it gets fucked up. And sometimes you just have to sit in it – let yourself take in all the chaos, all the noise, all the ugliness – in order to make it through. And sometimes, it's nice to have someone sit there with you.

Emily takes a deep breath to steel herself, and moves forward.


	21. Chapter 21: Closing Minutes

**Author's Note:** I'm so glad our shared sentiment is - Katie Fucking Fitch is the queen. Your input into this story has been, as always, lovely. I hope you continue to enjoy this next bit as well.

* * *

"Do you think maybe you could stay here instead?"

The voice she recognises, but the context is all wrong. Because Emily, whom she left in Pembroke hours ago, can't possibly be standing in Cardiff Central. Except that she is. And when Naomi turns her head to see her there, the world rights itself again.

"How are you even –"

"Can you just stay? _Please_?" Emily asks again, completely ignoring whatever inconsequential information Naomi thought she wanted to know.

Naomi stands, walks around the bench until she's stood right in front of Emily, who's lips are trembling as tears brim her eyes. She looks at the ticket in her hand then off towards the platform, now bustling with boarding passengers.

"I – I fucking need you, okay? So can you please just …" and it's as far as Emily gets before Naomi steps towards her, envelopes her tiny frame and pulls her in tightly.

She can feel Emily's muffled apologies against her chest as she kisses her temple, her forehead, her lips that haven't stopped trembling. "It's okay," she says. "It's okay."

When Emily's gathered herself a bit, she sighs heavily and grabs to the opening of Naomi's jacket, rests her forehead into her chest and says, "I'm so fucked up."

"Yeah," Naomi agrees with a smile once Emily's looked back up at her. "But I'll take you anyway."

Emily kisses her then, and had they not been standing in the midst of an incredibly crowded train station, it would be the kind of kiss encouraging Naomi to begin removing Emily's clothes. But instead, she's forced to pull back, regain her composure with a few deep breaths. Her tongue running over the moisture left behind by Emily's lips.

"So … you'll stay then?" There's so much uncertainty in Emily's voice, Naomi's heart nearly breaks wide open.

She eyes her carefully, pulls her lips into a smirk before answering, "Yeah, I'll stay. Though, to be fair, you do owe me bus _and_ train fare."

"Anything." Emily says it quickly, looks up at her with absolute conviction, and Naomi thinks the change that's just occurred between them might finally stick.

Stuffing her now useless ticket into her jacket pocket, she slings her bag over one shoulder and slips her other arm around Emily as they head for the exit. "So, didn't drive yourself I'm guessing?"

"Katie," Emily admits quietly.

She smiles at that then asks, "And Effy?"

"Yeah, both."

"Any interesting conversation on the way here I missed out on?"

"No, I slept mostly. Why?"

Shrugging off the question as easily as she can, Naomi works to keep a grin from spreading across her face when she answers, "No reason."

* * *

Effy's got to smoke every other fucking minute because she's, well, _Effy_. And she could try to be annoyed by the habit or disgusted by the stench on all her clothes or in her _flat_, for that matter, if she didn't also find it incredibly, fucking sexy. Sort of like everything Effy does – applying make-up, lacing her boots, brushing her teeth – Katie finds it to be bloody irresistible.

They stand next to the car for a bit since the sun is out, and it isn't even that cold for November anyway. Effy smokes and Katie watches the foot traffic, sometimes glances towards the entrance, wondering whether or not this whole trip will turn out to be a waste. But then she glances at Effy, who's tilted back her head towards the sky, squinting her eyes a bit at the sun. And, lately, that's about all it takes.

And kissing Effy up against the car – not fucking _groping_ her or anything, just holding her face between her hands as she's grown to love – feels like the best part of a rather grim day. The warmth from the wintry sun has absolutely _nothing_ on the feel of Effy's lips. The kind of warmth that just spins circles in the pit of her stomach and tingles through the palms of her hands.

Effy's got both arms wrapped around her, low on her waist, and loose on the small of her back. She's slipped them through the opening of Katie's jacket so that she can feel the slow movement of Effy's hands between the fabric of her shirt and lining of the jacket. They kiss lazily, so slowly that Katie can erase for quick moments what's still waiting for them back in Pembroke.

Possibly, she should have been paying more attention to time passing, passers-by, or _whatever_, but getting lost in snogging Effy is entirely too easy to do.

So it's only _after_ she looks over Effy's shoulder to see Emily has exited the station [with Naomi in tow], that Katie realises the cat's well out of the fucking bag.

* * *

"Am I fucking hallucinating or what?"

"Afraid not," Naomi confirms easily enough.

Emily's glare is on her in an instant, watches Naomi tentatively form a smile while keeping her eyes forward. "You knew." It's not a question and the accusatory tone causes Naomi to clear her throat before responding.

"Sort of walked in on something yesterday," she says out the side of her mouth because they're still walking towards the car and it wasn't all that far off to begin with.

"_Jesus Christ_," Emily says, and it's a bit like whispered disbelief.

When they reach the car, Katie has managed to like, extract herself from Effy who's languidly smoking a fag, leant up against the boot like she hasn't just had her lips all over her fucking sister.

"You can throw your bag in the back, Naomi." Effy's speaking to her girlfriend but doesn't take her eyes off Emily as she balances the fag between her lips and unlatches the boot.

Katie's already slipped back into the driver's seat so that when Emily spins around to glare in her direction, she ends up giving a rather hateful glance to an elderly couple who's shuffling by. Then Effy's walking around the car and stands in front of her, so Emily defensively crosses her arms along her stomach.

Effy drops her cigarette to the ground, stubs it out with the toe of her boot then looks back up at her. "Alright then?"

Emily laughs in response, but it's more like a cough because it's loud and sharp and completely incredulous.

"Yeah – 'course, she's good." Naomi resumes holding her around her waist, but Emily thinks it's less about comfort at this point and more about keeping her from throttling her best mate. Still, Naomi kisses her on the cheek for good measure as Effy slips past them and climbs in the front seat.

* * *

The silence stretches on for a painfully long time after Katie utters a quiet 'Hello again' to Naomi, who only smiles in return. Katie watches the road, her hands clamped onto the steering wheel. Effy watches the scenery zip past them, her gaze out the passenger side window. And Naomi watches her, Emily, who's head has been snapping between her sister and Effy for the better of thirty minutes.

So when it happens, the quiet car ride sort of shatters instantly.

"Sorry, but, what the actual _fuck_?" It's not her most elegant reaction, but it's the only one she's got when she watches as Effy's hand moves across Katie's thigh a few times before settling on her kneecap.

"Emily." She can feel Naomi's grip tighten around her hand to accompany the warning in her voice, so she sinks back a bit, suddenly feeling how sore her shoulders are from keeping them so tense.

"No, it's fine. I'm not – I'm not upset. It's just …"

"_Clearly_." Effy turns just enough so that Emily can see the bemused look plastered on her face and it's enough to tense her muscles all over again.

"Well, were _either_ of you planning to tell me that you're – that you –"

"Technically, I did try to suggest," Naomi's train of thought comes to an abrupt stop with a quick, cutting glance, but the smile she fails miserably to erase. "Come to think of it, you probably owe me twenty quid _in addition_ to the bus fare and the –"

"_Naomi_!"

"Sorry, sorry – just trying to lighten the mood."

"It just didn't seem like the right time to tell you," Katie finally says. And her voice, Emily thinks, sounds much more controlled, much calmer, than she'd have imagined. "Sort of have bigger things looming and all, haven't we?"

Effy squeezes Katie's leg and Emily watches wide-eyed as Katie drops her hand onto Effy's, threading their fingers together like it's as natural to her as driving the sodding car. When she looks up to see if Naomi's incredulity matches her own, she finds that same, stupid grin looking back at her. She feels Naomi's lips press to her temple then, and leans back into her, resigned to feeling like there'd been some party the other three had all attended and Emily's invite had gotten lost in the post.

The car falls silent again and, at some point, Emily falls asleep to the feel of Naomi's fingers rubbing gently on her back.

* * *

She jolts awake once they've stopped, groggily aware that they're back outside her childhood home. Effy and Naomi are around the back of the car when Katie catches her by the wrist on their way up the walk.

She turns to face her and sees that, despite the calm in her voice, the tips of Katie's ears are still a bit pink when she says cautiously, "We'll talk, yeah?"

Emily just nods once and watches Katie visibly relax.

It's already late afternoon by the time they're all back in the kitchen, sat yet again around the round table finishing a late lunch. The air around them equally awkward as it had been for breakfast, and for completely new reasons. Katie rings her dad and they decide to sit with Jenna in shifts. They sort out a schedule so that Katie and Emily will relieve their dad and James later that evening and stay through until morning.

When the table's cleared and Effy and Naomi are relaxing in the sitting room, Emily stands beside her sister at the sink. She's soaping up a glass when an uncontrollable burst of laughter starts shaking in her chest and shoulders. It's lack of sleep, she thinks, that's launching her into hysterics. But she can't help it, and before long she's leant on her elbows, trying to catch her breath. Katie's laughing along too; though, it's in the way where it's sometimes impossible _not_ to laugh when the person next to you is laughing. Even if you've got no fucking clue what's so funny because you've not been clued in on the joke.

"What is it?" Katie finally manages through her giggles. At one point just stopping her towelling altogether to watch Emily, who's eyes have started watering.

Emily sighs heavily, audibly, like she's finally caught her breath, and wipes at her eyes with the sleeves of her tee shirt. "Mum – she, well, she always wished I were more like you, didn't she?" She clears her throat, tries and fails to keep from laughing again.

Katie looks away for a second, screws her mouth in a way Emily knows means she's a bit embarrassed, but she recovers easily enough. Says with careful laughter, "Looks like she got her dying wish then."

It's so fucked up, all of it. Sorting schedules to sit by her dying mum's bedside. Being back inside a house she hasn't called home since her sixteenth birthday. Watching her father deteriorate in tandem with her mum, and trying not to worry about how he'll get on once they've all gone back to where they belong. It's so fucked up to be sharing a laugh over something so bloody grim.

Because it's draining, in a way that feels like the life you're losing also takes some of you with it. Leaves you feeling like less with every passing day, until they're gone entirely and you're left to figure out how much of yourself still exists without them.

And the small pockets of comfort during grief come in all different shapes, come at all different times. So standing at the sink with suds on her hands, while Katie's hand clutches her shoulder as they fill the quiet kitchen with raucous laughter, feels like the warmest kind of comfort.

* * *

They sleep. Finally. Effy doles out more of her tiny, magic sleeping pills and the house falls so peacefully quiet, Emily drifts off effortlessly. She wakes up when the room is dark. And it's an odd feeling, being so well-rested when the sun's just set for the day. She stretches an arm and a leg over Naomi's body, tucks her blonde hair behind her ear and kisses her jawline until she stirs. Listening to her sister – though she's loath to admit it – has turned out to be the best idea. Because having Naomi this close – this close _always_, preferably – is exactly what she needs.

* * *

This time, she doesn't hesitate. Climbs out of the car easily and holds Naomi's hand as they make their way through the front door. They pause, this clustered foursome, in the lobby that's full of comfy-looking chairs and sofas. It smells like coffee and baked goods. Like they've made an effort to distract from the actual utility of the place.

Emily looks up at Naomi who just shakes her head, kisses her softly and answers without prompting, "I'll be right out here if you need me, yeah?"

"I'll sit with you," Effy offers, and it's only then Emily notices both her hands are laced with Katie's.

It's going to take some getting used to – some incredibly long chats and loads of alcohol – so Emily just smiles tightly and looks away from their joined hands to Katie, who's expression looks a bit tired but rather content.

* * *

James is walking down the corridor towards them as they approach the room. He looks a bit sleepy but as they near him, Emily realises he's also just incredibly stoned. Her first reaction is to say something negative, scold him like he's still eleven and nicking her fanny mags. But then she remembers he's not exactly a kid anymore, and who the fuck is she to tell him how to deal with this. James, who's losing his mum. Maybe more than any of them.

So instead she just reaches out, wraps her arm around him in a kind of half-hug and says, "Hey."

"She's awake. Sort of," he says.

Emily's not sure if James is perceptive enough to feel her tense, but Katie sees it immediately because when their eyes lock, she reaches out and takes Emily's hand.

"I need a smoke," James says, shifting until he's got his other arm around Katie as well. And then the three of them are just this sibling bundle, stood in the middle of the darkened corridor – Katie and Emily's heads practically nestled into James' armpits, he's gotten so tall. "Think Effy's got a pack of fags?"

They both laugh but it's Katie who answers with a wry, "Pretty sure she'll have one to spare, James."

And then he's gone, and Emily watches his form retreat until he's turned the corner because the only thing left to do then is go inside. Katie gives her hand a reassuring squeeze and reaches for the door.

She sees her dad first and his smile is nearly, _nearly_, as wide as she remembers it being before everything went to shit. And it's almost enough to put her at ease. It feels wrong that seeing her mum's eyes closed also relaxes her, but she releases a quick breath of relief just the same.

"Hi dad," Katie says, kisses his bearded cheek then twitches her mouth from the prickly contact.

"Nurses just gave her another round of medicine so she'll be in and out of it a bit." Emily gulps as she watches him rub a hand up and down her mum's bare arm. "Babe. Babe, the girls are here."

Her head is turned so that when her eyes first flutter open, she's looking only at Emily's dad. She doesn't smile, but then, she never really did.

"Look," he says so proudly, motioning to where they're stood at the foot of the bed. "Katie's here. And Emily. Katie and Emily are here," he repeats while Jenna blinks slowly, keeping her eyes on her husband.

Emily's stomach seizes and the only way she can think to keep from running out of the room is to grip harder on Katie's hand, which might already be bruised at this point.

"Hey mum," Katie calls out, rubs her other hand on what is probably her mum's foot or lower leg, though it's all just a mound of lumpy blankets really.

Jenna turns then and just as Emily starts to imagine her lashing out in anger, ordering her out of the room, Katie clears her throat and she knows she's meant to say something.

"Hello." It comes out slow and quiet and unfamiliar. Like they're strangers meeting for the first time.

"You'll be late," her voice scratches out. "For the match." Emily and Katie look to each other then back at their mum. "She'll be late, Rob. She needs her laces tied." She's looking back to him now, their dad, who just smiles and closes both his hands around their mum's.

"Okay, Jen – it's alright. Just a bit out of it girls," he says addressing them again. "She still gets confused for all the pain medicine, you know."

Emily nods, her heart just hammering away – so loud in her ears that her dad sounds muffled. Too quiet for her to make out the words. When she looks back to her mum, she seems to have fallen back to sleep, the way her breathing is heavy again. Ragged, but even.

Katie's telling their dad something – tells him to go eat or to take James home, maybe – but she can't focus on anything other than watching her mum's breaths until Katie's looking right at her and says her name.

"Huh?"

"I love you and all but can I, like, get my hand back before you break it?"

* * *

Without the beeps and whirrs of typical machines and monitors in the room, it's just eerie quiet and the sounds of Jenna's laboured breathing. Emily blanks out for long minutes just watching and listening and waiting until finally Katie gets up and flips on the light in the loo so that a fan hums softly through the room.

They sit on opposite sides of the bed and say very little. Katie's brought a book with her, and Emily watches her, wondering if she's actually reading at all. Around midnight she gets up to stretch and looks down at her phone.

"Want a coffee or anything?"

Katie's smile is a bit patronising when she says, "If you want to go see her, just say so."

Emily's about to argue when Katie just raises an eyebrow. "Fine. I want to see my girlfriend. Happy?"

"Coffee would be nice, thanks." Her self-satisfied smirk is nearly as infuriating as her tone, but Emily squelches the urge to flip her off and settles for an eye roll.

When she reaches the door, she pauses then says without turning around fully, "Should I send Effy back then?"

"Uh, sure. Thanks," Katie stutters, because apparently Emily's not the only one having a bit of anxiety about navigating this new development.

* * *

The sitting room in the cottage-turned-hospice care centre has long been emptied so Naomi's impossibly long legs are stretched down the length of one sofa while Emily lies between them, resting on her stomach and chest. And lying with Naomi is such a welcomed reprieve, Emily has to remind herself not to stay too long, else she's likely to never return to her mum.

"She's still sleeping then?"

Emily nods, the material of Naomi's shirt shifting beneath her cheek. Then, thinks better of it and says, "Off and on. She asks Katie for water sometimes. Sort of just points to the glass really." And then, quieter, "I don't even think she knows I'm there."

"She knows." Naomi's answer is so quick, sounds so certain, Emily wants to believe her without pause.

"I should get back."

They shift, just enough to be sitting, but Emily's arms stay wrapped around Naomi's middle.

"I'm sorry I wasn't going to be here for this," Naomi says.

"I'm sorry I wasn't going to let you," she answers.

She doesn't hear Effy approach and thinks Naomi must not have either because she says 'Oh' like she's just been surprised.

When Effy says "Hey," Emily finally turns enough to look up at her and sees something darkening her eyes. "Katie thinks you ought to head back to the room."

The air cools by rapid degrees and her stomach drops, but Emily manages to get her legs – rubbery and unwilling – to carry her back down the corridor. Everything in the room looks to be the way she left it, and then she sees that Katie has been crying.

"What happened?"

"She couldn't breathe – it was so awful. Couldn't catch a fucking breath, Ems." She abandons the chair where she'd been sat before and goes directly to Katie, pulls her into a hug. "The nurse came in – just gave her more medicine and things calmed down, but …"

"But what?" Emily pulls back enough to look into Katie's eyes, pink and watery and terribly sad.

"I don't know – I don't know. I feel like I should call Dad. I feel like it could happen soon."

"Oh." She looks down at their mum, watches her open mouth as she struggles to get air into her lungs and thinks about crying. What she does instead is run to the toilet and vomits.

* * *

The last time she sees her mum's eyes, she tries to memorise them as being something kind and loving. She doesn't want to remember them for what they are now – barely there representations of a woman who once cooked and cleaned and loved with ferocity. Too fierce, Emily thinks. Her mother loved them so hard she nearly broke them entirely.

Katie's ducked out to call their dad when Jenna's eyes open and find Emily's immediately. They watch each other until Emily remembers the water glass and reaches for it.

"Katie." Emily stills her hand at the sound of her voice and looks back to her mum.

"Yeah she just popped out, but she'll be right back."

When she says 'Katie' a second time, Emily starts to think she should just run out and grab her sister because it seems to be a moment she shouldn't be missing. But then she feels the hand – just skin wrapped around brittle bone, really, but it's warm and familiar just the same – covering her own, and works to swallow back the emotion crowding her throat.

"You've got to tell your sister, Katie." Emily blinks once. Twice. Her eyelashes feel wet. "Tell her – tell her I'm sorry. Tell her for me." Her vision is blurry so she blinks several more times, trying to clear away the tears that keep filling up her eyes. And her mum looks so earnest, her brow knitted when she says, "Katie?"

So Emily grabs hold of her hand, carefully holding it between her own, and nods. "Yeah, mum. Yeah, I'll tell her."


	22. Chapter 22: Tracking Back

When she wakes up, the room is too quiet; and then she realises, alarmingly, it's because her mum has stopped breathing.

Katie wakes up too, raises her head off the bed where it had been resting, just seconds after Emily – like even after so many years, they still can't seem to stop from doing things in tandem.

Later, she'll try to recall how her hand had ended wrapped up in her mum's – who had been the one to reach out and when. She'll wonder if her mum finally knew that she had come to see her because Katie's hand was being held too. Like their mother had managed to reach out to them, while they slept, just before slipping away.

* * *

There isn't a funeral.

Explicitly – as typed out in her final wishes because Jenna Fitch was nothing if not organised, even about her post-mortem affairs – she demands a lack of fanfare. No ceremony, no casket, no eulogy. And, much to the dismay of her Scottish heritage: no pipers or tartans. She wanted cremation. She wanted her family to gather and grieve; and she wanted very little else. Her specifics seem, to Emily, rather nonconformist. Rather untraditional, actually. And she can sort of smile at that.

Relatives flood the house and fill it up with boisterous talk, thick accents, and plenty of alcohol. Her dad seems alright. A bit more rested, even if the light behind his eyes – the way they used to almost twinkle when he spoke – has dulled.

Katie's in her element, of course. Refreshing drinks, cooking stew, kissing relatives, wearing a fucking apron. She functions best when things have gone to shit, Emily thinks. And from a distance, she notices the way Effy compliments that – the way she quietly shadows her, helping where she can. Alleviating her from over-talkative aunts and uncles and re-routing cousins from the kitchen to other rooms. She watches the way Katie's face will fall, once she's turned away from the family and their looks of concern, and how it takes only the slightest touch of Effy's hand against her arm for Katie's expression to right itself again.

* * *

She's fairly certain James has fucked off – called up one of his mates and left the house. It's what she would do if she thought no one would notice, if she were still his age and reckless abandon were more acceptable. She wouldn't hesitate to grab Naomi and fuck off to the beach where the air is salty and cool and quiet. Where she could escape the constant looks of sympathy and just sit still for a moment, and breathe.

When she passes by the glass patio doors, James proves her wrong by appearing in the back garden. He's kicking a football in the air, his keepy-uppy a bit sloppy as he tries to simultaneously keep his spliff lit as it dangles precariously from his lips. She's about to head outside when she sees Naomi approaching him, walking slowly across the lawn with two cans of cider. Emily watches with fascination as James makes conversation, _actual_ conversation, flips his hair back from his face and even smiles a bit, something she'd not seen in days.

Naomi's foot reaches out for the ball where James has dropped it between them, like despite her pressed trousers and fancy shoes she just can't help herself. Guilt has been outweighed by grief and loss, but now, watching her, it comes rushing back. The way Naomi had stayed with her – the way she'd left everything else behind. An entire, fucking life of football, abandoned [at least momentarily] and put in jeopardy for _her_. It feels like too much – the weight of it nearly crushing her chest and lungs. And then Naomi turns to see her standing there, boots the ball to James, and smiles. It doesn't feel like too much then. It feels like everything.

* * *

Emily finds her in the evening when the house is quieter, when the kitchen is stocked with so much food she can't be sure her father and James will ever again have the need to, like, cook a meal. Naomi got _well_ pissed – even though she's certain Emily warned her not to try and keep up with Uncle Pherson – and is now soundly asleep upstairs. Effy had said something about keeping up James' spirits for a bit, which Katie recognised immediately as just a flimsy excuse to smoke more spliff.

So she's sat at the table, her feet propped up on the chair next to her when Emily comes in and sits down. She's quiet, Emily is, but Katie can practically _hear_ the thoughts racing through her head, they're so bloody loud. So she finally says a bit tiredly, "What is it then?"

Emily always looks so startled when she's pulled out of her head and into actual conversation, which makes Katie wonder why she would sit down at the table at all if she didn't expect Katie to like, _talk_ to her.

"It's nothing. I'm just … a bit out of it. Can't I just sit here?"

"So you don't want to talk about –"

"Mum? No," she says quietly, looking down to the table and letting her finger follow the crooked wood grains.

"I was going to say Effy, actually." Katie watches nervously until Emily looks back up at her, her palms suddenly very sweaty when her sister doesn't say anything.

They just sit there. Like they're in the middle of some ridiculously tense chess match, and it's Emily's move but Katie can't remember whether or not she's left her King at risk of being captured. She feels incredibly exposed just by the way Emily watches her, the way she pulls at her lips in consideration.

Then she goes ahead and says the thing Katie least expects. "You love her."

Fucking checkmate.

Katie looks away, which is probably the one thing you're _not_ supposed to do – let your opponent like, see your weakness, or whatever. But then, she doesn't actually think of Emily that way, does she?

Before she's managed to respond or even look back in her direction, Emily follows up with, "When did it happen?"

And Emily probably doesn't know she's asking a loaded question, but as far as those things go, it's about as heavily loaded as they come.

So Katie considers the following:

A year after they meet Effy, she ends up in hospital with gashes everywhere and at least one suicide attempt under her belt. Katie – without fucking prompt or sound reasoning – kisses her one day because her eyes had gone black and hollow and she just wanted Effy to get back to normal already. Two years later, Emily is gone and everything shifts, making Katie feel so unsteady she nearly topples over. Except Effy is still there and haphazardly breaks her fall just by like, sitting with her on the same sofa every night. Until one weird and honest moment, Katie hears herself talking about kissing blokes and how they're generally rubbish and maybe Emily had it right all along. It doesn't take much then, before she's laughing into Effy's mouth, their lips not really able to find a proper rhythm for all Katie's nonsense. Then one month ago, Katie is in London, snogging Effy _in Emily's bed_. Two weeks later, she starts snogging Effy all over the fucking flat. And just seven days ago, she'd felt something she'd never before felt, like _ever_, when Effy hovered over her, drawing out her orgasm with her nimble fingers as she kissed the flushed skin of Katie's chest.

She bites her lip then, knows she's probably turned twelve shades of red all under Emily's scrutiny, and tries to sort out how the fuck she's meant to answer the question, considering she's not really had the fucking time to think it through, has she?

"Kate?"

She doesn't want to chronologically list out all the ways in which she finds it would be impossible _not_ to fall in love with Effy. Because, the evidence, it speaks for itself; but, it's also highly personal and she doesn't think she can talk about it with _Emily_ without lisping horribly out of sheer embarrassment.

So she doesn't tell her about when she thinks she _might_ have fallen for Effy. Instead she tells her about the moment she knew there was no going back.

"When we got back from London, I wanted Effy to call up the doctor – her therapist, or whatever – to check in, you know?"

Emily nods and keeps quiet.

"So I get a message while I'm work – Effy says she made an appointment and wants me to go with her." Katie twists her fingers around the stem of her wine glass making it spin against the table.

"So you went?"

"Yeah, I went with her … except we didn't see her doctor. We went to see Cook."

Emily's face blanches. Katie swallows back the remainder of her wine and proceeds to finish the story.

* * *

Three weeks earlier, Katie steps off the lift and pushes through the front door of her flat.

"Hi." Katie smiles when Effy meets her in the corridor just as she'd done every evening since they got back from London.

"Hi," she answers then balks just seconds before dipping down to kiss her.

Katie stutters a laugh when they both seem to halt, waiting for the other to close in, but then Effy sets her hands on Katie's waist and a rush of air leaves her lungs. The kiss is tentative and still a bit awkward, but it feels like the only kind of kiss she ever wants to get upon arriving home for the day. Effy tastes like spearmint instead of nicotine and Katie's heart thumps ridiculously that she probably like, sucked on a piece of candy before Katie got home in anticipation of this very moment.

When the kiss ends – and she never really wants it to, which is why it's helpful that Effy's got like, enough restraint for them both – she says, "So you made an appointment? When do we need to leave?"

"Yeah, soon I think."

Katie steps back a fraction, looks towards the stairs and asks if she has time to change.

"Don't change." Effy shrugs. "You look nice," she kisses the corner of her mouth, then walks off to grab a jacket or her fags. Like with three, stupid words she hasn't just brightened Katie's entire, fucking day.

* * *

Effy drives and Katie doesn't argue – it'd been a shit day at the office and she'd rather spend the car ride trying to decompress before having to sit through what she imagines will be a rather tense therapy session.

"Don't be mad, okay?"

Effy keeps her eyes on the road so Katie turns a bit in her seat and scoffs, "That's a horrible way to preface anything."

"Just don't be, okay?"

She sighs, already annoyed with the direction of their conversation. "I'm not going to say I won't – just fucking tell me –"

"I called Cook."

"Oh."

Effy does look at her then – just a split second before looking back to the road – trying to gauge her reaction before she adds, "We're not going to see the doctor."

"Ef –"

"No, Katie. Look, if I'm going to figure this out, it's not going to be with someone who's got a PhD, okay?" She pauses, waits for Katie to settle back into her seat then asks quietly, "Are you mad?"

She's not mad. A bit fucking terrified that Effy's shanghaied her into a reunion with someone from her incredibly dark and secretive past. But not mad. "I'm not mad, I just don't know why you'd want me to come along."

She watches as something that's not quite a smile, crawls over Effy's lips when she says, "You can be a bit thick, you know."

"So you've brought me along to insult me, is that it?" She's sure it's the nerves, the fear of not knowing what's about to happen when they meet up with this Cook character, that's making her so confrontational.

But, nerves or not, Effy saves her from acting like an even bigger arsehole when she says in complete exasperation, "I brought you because I'm fucking scared, okay?"

And, well, that shuts her up rather effectively.

"I don't like doing this – dredging up old shit that I've blocked out for so long. It's fucking scary, and I hate it," Effy continues, sounding more irritated than Katie has heard in ages. "But having you around," she tries to shrug off some of the edge in her voice. "It makes things ... less scary."

She doesn't think then – so it's rather fortunate that Effy's stopped the car at a traffic signal – and just launches herself across the front seats, pulling at Effy's neck until their lips are pressed together. Effy makes a startled noise that has Katie only pushing harder, trying to say more without speaking. And then Effy's hands abandon the wheel and tangle into Katie's hair. Her eyes are clenched tight, even when Katie pulls back, breathless. So she kisses her again, softer this time, until Effy's face relaxes.

"I've been told I can be a bit thick," she smirks, just millimetres away from Effy's lips, and watches as Effy's face melts into an actual smile.

When horns blare out behind them, Effy jerks the car forward and laughs when Katie turns in her seat and yells, "Oh fucking piss off, impatient tossers!"

* * *

Cook is almost exactly as she'd imagined him, except he's managed to tone things down by a few degrees since they're sat in a coffee shop and not some dodgy pub. He's still a jumpy guy even when she thinks he's trying to be more subdued – like all this wild energy is just bubbling at the surface and any minute he'll be breaking tables in half with his fists. And she's trying to be like, objective or whatever, for the sake of Effy working through her shit, but she tenses just a bit every time he reaches over touch Effy's hand or forearm.

They have a kind of familiarity between them she'd rather not think about.

Katie's almost forgotten why she's sat here because Cook and Effy seem to be getting on just as well as any old college mates; but then Cook says "Freds fookin' loved some shit music, man." And Effy's hand slips into hers immediately, holds tightly.

"He used to listen to all that poorly produced reggae," she says and then laughs when Cook does. But it's not authentic – sounds horribly contrived in them both. So it dies out rather quickly and then Effy tells him, "We fucked up, Cook. But, it wasn't our fault, was it?"

"No, mate. It wasn't. Freds was already gone, wasn't he?"

Katie holds her breath and watches it all play out. Because neither Cook nor Effy are asking any questions of the other, not really. There's a certainty to their voices like they're stating facts. Except that's not really what they came here to do. Effy needs Cook to tell her she's earned vindication, even if she can't ask for it.

Freddie's dead. Katie knows this. Strung himself up by the rafters of some garden shed when they were still kids. And being teenaged – when you're still too young to have really figured anything out – seems like the wrong time to end a life that you haven't even begun to understand. So Freddie offs himself and Effy's not around to stop it [because survivor's guilt tells her she could have], only finds out in the aftermath when his family starts pointing fingers at the people closest to him. And Katie knows all of this.

What she doesn't know – has only harboured theories up until this point – is how Cook completes this puzzle. How snapping him into place will form a better picture of Effy's old life that's been broken to bits for as long as she's known her.

"So we can stop resenting each other?" Again, Effy asks without asking. She's telling Cook it's okay to let it go, in hopes that she gets to do the same.

"Stopped doing that a long time ago, sweetheart. Stopped hating you, stopped hating myself for hating you. Stopped hating Freddie for being a selfish prick and leavin' us. Even made my peace with ol' London Town." He winks at her and Katie feels a flush of heat that only subsides when Effy's thumb rubs along the back of her hand.

Effy hates London and not for the reasons she pretends. But then, she doesn't pretend with Katie. So Katie knows she hates it because of Freddie. Because when he stopped being able to smile altogether and spiralled deeper into depression, Effy ran away from her own demons and his too. She fucked off to London for an entire summer and didn't come back to Bristol until Freddie's burial plot looked like freshly overturned earth.

Later, when they're back in the car, Katie asks, "So Cook is London?"

Effy nods, releases a long breath. "Cook is London."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry this wasn't longer, but it felt like a good stopping point so you get what you get and can't be upset, yeah?

Hoping that another update is possible before christmas but I've got loads of people arriving between Sunday and Monday so we'll just have to wait and see. Would love to be able to post a little christmas surprise for you though. It's the least I can do for all the lovely things you have to say about this story.

This is completely unrelated, but I had a real laugh after writing this at the idea that KFF and Effy Stonem never actually had a relationship on the show. It's so canonized in my head at this point, I sometimes forget they've never actually had an onscreen kiss. Anyway, off to finish my shopping. Cheers!


	23. Chapter 23: A Funny Old Game

**Author's** **Note**: Hello lovelies! The holidays took over my life and I've been shattered for days but we're back and nearly finished with our tale of football!Naomily. Pretty sure I'll have everything wrapped up in another chap or so [*wipes tears*]. So without delay, here we go!

* * *

Naomi reappears in the kitchen – groggy, confused, no longer slurring but still carrying the strong stench of rum – just as Katie returns to the table with an open bottle of wine. Emily smiles up at her scowling face, the one she wears when she's still sleepy and out of sorts, and reaches out for her hand.

Katie fills Emily's glass and then her own before looking to Naomi, an amused expression playing on her face when she asks, "Ready for round two?"

She responds with a noise of disgust before plopping down in a chair, then says, "Water."

So Emily moves from the table to fetch the water but not before planting a kiss on her girlfriend's pathetically scowling mouth. Only to pull back a second later, making eyes at Katie over Naomi's head and waving a hand in front of her nose and mouth. When Katie chuckles, Naomi grunts and looks up at her.

"What?"

Katie clears her throat as Emily walks away and says, "Have a time with the uncles then, did you? I'm sure they quite enjoyed your company."

"They are horrible, _horrible_ men," she sulks.

"I tried to warn you," Emily sing-songs on her way back, placing a tall glass of water in front of Naomi.

"So much rum," she groans, carefully reaching for the glass before downing half its contents in one go.

"Yeah, you do reek a bit of Barbados and cheap cigars," Emily criticises adoringly and Katie laughs into her wine glass.

"Fuck. I'm going to shower." She moves to leave the table but Emily keeps hold of her hand.

"No, don't – it's sort of working for me." Naomi's eyebrows shoot up, Katie gags, Emily laughs. "Kidding. But, actually, I want to show you something if you're up for it?"

Naomi nods as Katie is complaining, "Don't worry about me then."

"Christ, you're dramatic," Emily sighs, rolling her eyes as her and Naomi make their way from the table. "Obviously, you can come along too."

"Think I'll make sure Effy's not being sexually harassed by our dear brother, actually." Then adds insincerely, "But thanks for the pity invite." She then watches, with mild interest, as Emily leads Naomi back towards the tiny room with no windows.

The hospital bed is gone – moved to the garage with other remnants of cancer and illness that the family no doubt longs to forget – and in its place sits a small grey loveseat. Emily directs Naomi to it then reaches for the same albums she'd been clutching to just days ago.

"Do I really stink?"

Emily makes a face when she turns to see Naomi sulking, testing her breath against a cupped hand. "Afraid so. Here," she pulls a peppermint from the front pocket of her trousers and tosses it to her before sitting down. As soon as Naomi's removed the plastic wrapper and popped it in her mouth, Emily leans over and kisses her for good measure. She smiles, "Better."

She makes a sort of disgruntled effort to smile in return then looks down to the album on Emily's lap. "What's all this then?"

Emily takes a deep breath – the heavy kind that's often necessary just before a rather big moment – to shake the nerves from her voice. She looks up, swallows back the last of her anxieties surrounding everything she's never before said to the girl she loves – to anyone, really. "I want you to meet my mum."

Naomi doesn't cry – doesn't even look like she's fighting back tears – and it comes as such a relief when she says instead with a warm smile, "I'd like that."

She doesn't open the book. Instead, she starts to speak. And there's something about the way her voice fills the quiet room – something about the way it sounds softer, more innocent – that feels like Naomi's hearing her for the first time. That she hasn't really known Emily until this exact moment.

"My mum was a lot of things, and when I got older she was a lot of horrible things. But I don't really want you to know that part of her – that cruelty that never really lined up with who she was the rest of my life. Because mostly she was very loving, in her own way, and in the end –" Emily sighs, runs a hand through her hair – "well, in the end I think she remembered that." She looks to Naomi who's practically hung on every breath and syllable. "So, is that okay?"

"Is that okay?" Naomi repeats, obviously confused.

"Is it okay to omit the bad stuff, for a bit? I mean, I know you want to know – no," corrects herself, "I mean, I know I need to talk about it."

Naomi slips her hand onto Emily's thigh, squeezes encouragingly. "You will when you're ready. I'm not going anywhere."

The picture book – like every good story – starts at the beginning, and Emily describes each snapshot in time like she's got the pages memorised.

Jenna at seventeen with sleek, long hair and intense dark eyes. _She hated the length of her hair and her mum for not letting her wear it short like Ally Sheedy. _

Rob [with an impressively long, wavy mullet in a pale blue suit] watching Jenna on their wedding day as she stands in the middle of an expansive field, flowers in her hair. _Here we see 1987 was a great time to be Jenna, but Rob? Not so much. _

So many of the earlier photos are of Emily's dad with other people – friends, relatives, neighbours – Naomi finally asks, which is when Emily explains that her own love of photography all started with her mum. _She actually hated being photographed. Preferred to hide behind the lens. _

"She was quite good. See the lighting in this one? The newer cameras – all that digital shite – they don't lend to the artistry that older models allowed." Emily's studying the landscape of Glasgow at dusk when she looks up to see Naomi watching her, and blushes immediately. "Sorry, I get a bit nerdy about it."

"No," Naomi shakes her head, "no, it's adorable. _You're_ adorable."

"Yeah, well, I had good genes, didn't I?" she smirks.

"I got the _good_ genes – just gave you my leftovers," Katie is saying as she enters the room with a cocky smile and Effy in tow.

"Fuck off," Emily laughs.

"Shove over so I can see," Katie says so Emily and Naomi shift until Katie is sat on the other side of Emily. Effy, appropriately, perches on the arm rest and drapes her arm along the back of the sofa.

And then Katie and Emily are both narrating as the pages turn. The twins in hospital with rosy cheeks and pink, knitted caps. The first step Emily took all by herself, which, Katie argues, happened just seconds after she'd done the same thing but their mum hadn't grabbed the camera in time.

"That is such bollocks! Like you would even remember that," Emily counters.

"_Whatever_ – I remember," Katie insists over the sounds of Naomi and Effy's laughter.

Tiny footie Emily is nearly too much for Naomi to handle as she practically grabs the entire book from Emily's lap to get a better look, 'oohing' and 'awing' at her short legs, bright green kit, and braided hair.

"Oh my god, I mean – I thought you were small _now_, but look at you! You're impossibly miniscule," she's saying as Emily pulls the book back onto her lap.

"You know, you're likely to give me a complex at this rate," she scowls though it doesn't really register in her eyes. "Not everyone has the good fortune of freakishly long limbs, alright?"

"_Freakishly_ long? They're _freakishly_ long now, are they?"

"Yes, okay, Emily and I are petit and the women we fancy are tall – we get it. Now can we get back to the sodding photos already?"

Naomi stifles a laugh once Katie has realised the effect her blunt retort has had on Emily who's now eyeing her sister with her mouth slightly agape. But Katie just shrugs, raising her eyebrows and says with spectacular nonchalance, "What? I mean, it's true, yeah?"

When Emily exhales, "Right," and then stretches out the word 'anyway' so it sounds twice as long as it should, the air in the room relaxes again, and Katie interjects a rather lengthy description of the gifts they received for their tenth birthday.

* * *

That night in bed, Emily turns into Naomi's chest, burying her face just below her chin. She thinks, momentarily, it might have something to do with the way Katie and Effy have dropped all pretence and climbed into the bed beside them with bared legs and flimsy tee shirts. The way they slipped their arms around each other and the kiss Katie placed on Effy's shoulder cap just as Emily reached over to click off the light. She's not complaining though, having Emily curled up to her and her small, hot breaths along her neck and collarbone. She wraps her arms tighter and whispers quietly just before drifting off, "Thanks for letting me meet your mum."

* * *

They arrive in London two days before Arsenal's final fixture of the season. In light of everything else, they hadn't broached the subject of football for days, and Emily is a bit loath to do so now. Even though, it's rather unavoidable, having the captain of the squad sat in her bedroom and all.

"Did you hear back from Coach?" Naomi is in bed, computer on her lap, responding to emails.

"I've a meeting with him tomorrow morning, before practice."

It feels awful, after everything that spilt out between them in Pembroke, to be walking on eggshells. But with Naomi's eligibility to play their final match hanging in the balances, Emily knows she's got to tread lightly.

"Any idea what he'll say?" she crawls into bed, bunches her pillow up under her head and lies facing Naomi, who is studiously avoiding eye contact.

"No," she sighs.

"He has to let you play, or –"

"He doesn't _have_ to do anything, Emily."

Shit. Too far, she thinks. She clears her throat, trying to backpedal. Trying, at the least, to get a look in her direction.

"Well, he's a stupid tosser if he doesn't." This earns her a smile at least, though Naomi's still clicking away on her keyboard. So she bites her lip and knits her brow before saying, "I'm sor—"

Naomi is quick to look at her then. "Don't you dare say what you're about to say. I stayed in Pembroke because it was exactly where I was meant to be, got it?" Emily nods slowly. "I've no regrets about any of it, and I won't let you feel even one shred of guilt for me. It's just a game."

Emily eyes her sceptically. "You don't believe that."

But when Naomi sighs and closes the lid of her laptop she says, "I think I do."

* * *

When the stadium erupts into wild cheers and the remainder of the squad floods the pitch in celebration, Naomi's kit is clean and dry. But her smile is broad and completely genuine when she collides with Liv midfield.

She has a sort of different collision with Emily, later that evening, and for once doesn't pay any mind to the fact they're sat around a table with the rest of the lads. The hollers and whooping, if anything, encourage a bit more show in the act of snogging until she and Emily are both just laughing against each other's lips.

"Oy, oy, oy!" Naomi shouts when she jumps up, banging her hand on the table top. "Next round's on me, lads – you played fuckin' brilliantly!" The table erupts again in wild applause and when Naomi starts for the bar, it's Liv who follows her.

They order more tequila than should probably be legal, and Naomi tries not to think about the tab as she hands over her credit card. The lads had earned it, and she would happily pay for their celebratory alcohol consumption three times over.

"Your priorities have changed a bit," Liv says, or shouts, rather, for the noise of the club. But she's smiling when Naomi looks over at her.

"Went through some shit, didn't I? You start to re-evaluate. You look at things that used to be larger than life and they're somehow," she shrugs, "smaller. What's wrong with that?"

"Didn't say it was a bad thing, man." Liv claps her on her shoulder. "Just making sure you know I've still got my eye on you."

She smiles then, watches it mirrored in Liv. Her face is so kind, so open, when she smiles. "Thanks, mate."

The bartender slides two trays of tequila shots towards them, but before Naomi can grab one of the trays, Liv reaches out to pull on her arm.

"By the way, the lads and I have concluded that the colour red – it suits you."

Her initial look of shock is quickly replaced with narrowed eyes. "Didn't know my colour palette was ever up for discussion _behind my back_."

"Yeah, well, stop skipping out on practice and we won't have opportunity, will we?" Liv narrowly misses the swing Naomi's taken towards her arm.

"You're a fucking asshole," Naomi tells her with a smile. "And I'm fucking taking back your tequila shot."

"That, I'd like to see," Liv laughs, following behind Naomi with her own tray of shots.

* * *

"Naomi."

"Yes, Emily."

Another pause, hung in the backseat of a taxi.

"Naomi."

"Are you attempting to say something _to_ me, or just trying to commit my name to memory?" Naomi asks with a chuckle, the head on her shoulder lolling back and forth with the movement of traffic.

"I'm very drunk."

"Yes."

"Are you very drunk?"

"I'm fairly drunk, yes," Naomi answers, catching the eyes of the driver as he watches from the rear view mirror.

"Very drunk? Fairy drunk? _Vairly_ drunk?" Emily giggles at herself and Naomi can't resist joining in. The girl is beyond smashed. Probably drank her weight in alcohol and Naomi has only herself to blame. Still, drunk Emily has always been one of her favourite Emilys. "Where are we going?"

"Back to my flat. Remember when I asked you if you preferred your own bed and you said sleeping in my bed was like waking up in the clouds?"

"Your bed is made of fucking clouds and it's fucking lovely and I hate my bed by comparison," she pouts.

"Alright, well, looks like we made the right decision then."

Naomi throws a few notes to the driver before exiting the taxi then, with a bit of struggle, manages to get Emily into her building and up a flight of stairs before depositing her onto the sofa.

"Your stature is deceiving, Bristol. You're fucking heavy as dead weight," she says as Emily collapses onto the cushions with a drunken, happy smile.

She's on her way to the kitchen for water when she hears Emily say, "I don't even know why we have two flats. This one is brilliant, isn't it?"

She pauses, literally walks backwards into the room where Emily is, and looks at her. "Sorry?"

"Well, it just seems like a lot of work, doesn't it? _My_ place, _your_ place – it's all a bit exhausting." Emily's eyes are closed, her hands folded neatly across her stomach.

Having fallen prey to the tequila truth serum plenty of times herself, Naomi just says, "Right," before making her way back into the kitchen. But when she reaches for two water glasses, her hand is shaking.

* * *

In the morning, drunk Emily is gone and in her place she's left Naomi with incapacitated Emily. Which, though still adorably dysfunctional, is not nearly as happy.

"I don't think I'm going to make it. I mean, I really might be dying." They're still in bed, Naomi reading while Emily periodically updates her on the perils of her hangover. "Why aren't you more hungover?" she asks, rather accusatorily.

"Because when I saw you taking your fifth shot of tequila and washing it down with your third Jameson, I figured at least one of us should make an attempt to avoid alcohol poisoning."

"How very gallant of you," Emily groans.

"Do you want to try toast again? Biscuits? Tea?" she offers, brushing the hair back from Emily's forehead. She's discarded her book and lies facing her ailing girlfriend with mild amusement.

"Tea, maybe," she says, her voice pathetically small and fragile.

So Naomi smiles, kisses her cheek and slides out of bed. "Be right back."

When she returns, Emily's moved to a sort of half-lounging, half-sitting position and accepts the steaming cup when Naomi offers it.

"So, we took a taxi back here?" she asks, blowing steam from the cup before testing a sip. Naomi nods. "Hmm, don't remember."

"Don't remember much of anything, do you?" Naomi's propped her head up on her hand, turned towards Emily who shoots her a sideways glance.

"No," she says slowly. "Why? Did I say something awful or embarrassing or _weird_?"

"Course not." Naomi looks down, trying to conceal her smile, and traces the pattern on her duvet. "Unless you'd be embarrassed about suggesting us live here together."

When she looks up, Emily eyes are the size of saucers and then no longer looking at her at all when she says, "Oh." Her laughter is a bit stuttered when she continues, "Well, that's … interesting."

But then Naomi reaches over, slips her hand under the shirt Emily's borrowed and rests it on her stomach. Her smile is something breath-taking, in that Emily suddenly can't _breathe_, when she says, "We could, you know."


	24. Chapter 24: Game of Two Halves

**Author's Note:** I can't tell you how excited I am to be posting ANOTHER new chap. Think of it as your belated xmas gift - two chapters in two days. Just one more update after this one, I'm afraid. My sincerest thank yous to all the reviewers that piped in after the last chapter, but I wanted to say a special thanks to guest reviewer **Naomilyfan** who just says the nicest things. Let's get on with it, yeah?

* * *

They're '_thinking on it_.' Which is exactly how she'd phrased it when Emily seemed to balk at the idea of giving up her flat. 'Where would we put all my things? You're place is, like, meticulously spotless,' she'd cited amongst a laundry list of other things. But it was ridiculous, really, because Emily's things were already everywhere. Her dressing gown on the hook beside Naomi's just outside the shower. The chocolate biscuits she craved late at night, shelved in the cupboard next to the peanut butter. A spare pair of trainers sat by the front door. It might not have looked like much – might not have seemed that strong an infiltration to Emily, but to Naomi it felt like an overload in the best of ways.

The suggestion to take some time to consider the offer just seemed logistically sound.

The suggestion to do so _separately_, had been all Emily.

"Just one night. We can be away from each other for _one_ night, can't we?"

Not wanting to let her pathetically co-dependent side show, she'd of course agreed immediately. And then, as the notion settled over her, began to relish the time she'd have to think on this new prospect. She would spend time examining the things she loved about her space. _Her_ space, and then reimagine it as something shared. When she was around Emily, her head was often filled with bubbles or something. She never felt very grounded, always lofting to grand, romantic gestures and sappy, love-struck turns of phrase. But, on her own, she would rationalise with a clear head and focused determination. It would be refreshing to rediscover some of her old self, she thought.

* * *

When Emily is gone – after an embarrassingly exaggerated farewell snog at the front door – Naomi finds herself back in her reading chair by the window. It feels odd, the sudden stillness, but she is determined to embrace it. Though her feet are tapping and her fingers drumming so she grabs her mobile and checks the time. What does one do at eleven on a Saturday without a bouncy, red-headed cohort, excitedly dragging them about town to book shops and bakeries? The memory of baked goods gives her another idea as she quickly dials a number.

"Hiya mum."

"Hello?"

"It's me, mum, you know, you're one and only offspring."

"Oh, hmm, well yes. Let's see, I do have vague recollections of a daughter. Though, she hasn't rang in months and I'd just assumed she was done with me for good."

Not even 90 seconds in, and the woman was already making her regret the call.

"Are we quite finished with the self-depreciation bit of our conversation? Or should I give you some time for another few rounds?"

"Lovely to hear from you, dear. Just didn't recognise your voice is all."

"Ha. Ha."

"Oh, well, that's better. When you sound too cheery I'm always going to assume you've turned to drugs."

"Thanks, mum. That's well encouraging." Naomi sighs, realising that as much as the sound of her mum's voice brings its familiar kind of comfort, she isn't really sure why she'd called. "So, how are things? Bristol as bustling as ever?"

"Well, we're protesting tree farms this Saturday next. Bollocks consumerist tradition," she grumbles with distaste. "Who the fuck does Father Christmas think he is anyway?"

"Sounds like you're gearing up for a lovely holiday then," she deadpans. "Don't suppose you'll mind if I pop round to bring you a few gifts? Or will that spoil all your hum bug fun?"

"The gifts you can keep – I don't need anything else cluttering up this old house. But you sure as hell better turn up for Christmas dinner or I'm giving your inheritance to charity."

"My inheritance, ey? Can't imagine the teapots and bric-a-brac will really make much of a monetary impact for charity."

"Clever as you are, you don't know what kind of savings I've got stashed round the property. Just yesterday I buried 100 quid under the rose bush in the back garden."

She places a hand over her eyes, shaking her head. "Mum, please don't tell me shit like this."

"Suit yourself." As if her mother's voice could sound even more soothing, it did then. "How's Emily holding up?"

"She seems okay. I mean, it hasn't been all that long, has it?"

"She'll heal by degrees, dear. The deep wounds always do. And the two of you – you're getting on well, I assume?"

Naomi clamps her lips together in a futile attempt to stop herself from smiling like an idiot. She's alone anyway with no one to judge her, but still, she feels the smile will show in her voice and her mum's always been one for sensing these things. "I sort of proposed we move in together. Well, to be fair, it was her idea originally. Though I'm not sure if it counts based on her blood alcohol content at the time."

"Oh, I think that's just lovely!"

"Yeah, well … I'm not confident it's the right decision. I mean, it's a bit rushed probably. And so fucking stereotypical I can't even think about it without rolling my eyes _at myself_."

"Well, _Jesus_, Naomi – it isn't as if you showed up with a moving trolley on your second date."

She cringes over the sound of her mum's light laughter and says, "Your attempts at lesbian humour aren't funny, mum. They're just uncomfortable."

"Oh relax, child. If I know you at all, you've already started sorting out the ups and downs of making this change in your relationship."

"I haven't," she says, even as she stuffs a slip of paper with several scribbled pros and cons under her thigh.

"You'll let me know either way? Oh, and do bring Emily by when you're back in Bristol. I've got something set aside for her."

"O-kay," she says slowly. 'Something set aside' had the potential of meaning a myriad of things from literature about losing parents to a jumper made from recycled orange peels. You never could tell with Gina. "And, yes, I'll let you know if I end up with a flatmate."

"Flatmate – that's another lesbian joke, isn't it? Right?" her mother beams eagerly.

"_Goodbye_, mum." She hangs up to the sound of Gina's laughter and tosses her mobile onto the window sill.

* * *

"Heard a nasty rumour about you." Emily's laid back on her sofa, facing the window. It looks cold outside and she pulls the blanket more tightly around her.

"That right?" comes the disinterested reply.

"Something about shagging your flatmate to get out of paying her rent."

Effy's laughter is low and understated. "Hmm, the interpretation's a bit off – must've gotten your intel from a dodgy sort."

"Come on now, Eff – that's no way to talk about Katie."

Effy laughs harder now, and within seconds Emily easily forgets how awkward she expected this conversation to be.

"Thinks I'm just scamming her for a free place to stay, does she?"

"Sort of think she's got the complete opposite impression of you, actually," Emily says with a bit more seriousness. The line is quiet for a beat before she sighs, "She's in love with you, you know." She listens for the click of Effy's lighter, the slow inhale and eventual exhale.

"Yeah, I sort of picked up on that what with her telling me 'I love you' and all."

"She did?" Her heart races suddenly, the idea that things are changing – that Naomi wants to live with her and that she probably wants the same, and that Katie fell in love with Effy when she wasn't paying attention, and that, most startlingly, she no longer has two parents, only one. With a deep breath and closed eyes she calms her frantic thoughts. Decides to sort them one at a time. "When?"

"Without scarring you for life, let's just say it was earlier this morning."

"_Jesus_, Effy."

"Sorry," she says, not sounding at all apologetic. "You asked."

"And you?"

"And me what?"

"Do you _love_ my sister, knob head?"

"I've loved her for a long time. She was just … a bit slow to catch on."

"Oh. Right." And Emily thinks on that. She thinks how changes that seem so drastic almost always have certain indicators. And how if you're not paying attention, you'll miss them entirely. She thinks about how her best mate could have loved her sister without her knowing. How finding out had felt like being blindsided. But that if she looks back, _really_ looks, everything starts to fall into place.

She's lost in thought, replaying moments from her time in Bristol to her move to London, when Effy asks, "Where's your longer, blonder half then? Haven't gone and cocked that up again, have you?"

"Your lack of confidence is insulting."

"Your poor track record is astounding."

"I'm thinking of getting rid of my flat." It sounds foreign, saying it out loud.

"Interesting," is all she says in response.

"_Interesting_? That's all you've got to say? That's some shit input, even for you, Eff."

"I find it _interesting_ because I've just spoken to a realtor about putting my own flat up for sale."

And, really, fuck Effy for always reminding her how big of a twat she can be.

"Oh. Shit."

"You're going to do it then?" Effy's lazily asking.

"Huh?"

"Cohabitate."

"Oh yeah. Uh, not sure. We're taking some time to think it over," Emily explains.

"Of course you are." It's not judgemental. Just Effy's own way of making her second-guess her own certainty.

So she's on the offensive rather quickly. "Well, what about you? Have you told Katie you intend to give up your lush, downtown living quarters?" When Effy's Granny died she left everything to her grandchildren [always preferring them over her own children] – split evenly between Effy and her brother Tony. Effy purchased real estate and decided not to work as long as she could keep herself afloat. Tony fucked off to backpack across South America and never made his way back to Britain.

"No, Emily, figured I'd just move all my things into the flat while she's at work, guerrilla-style," Effy says flatly. "I never really went back there anyway – always felt a bit less like home after my stint in the looney bin. And, fuck it, I may as well make some money off it instead of letting it collect dust."

"It's one thing to spend all your time at Katie's – making that space your own – but it's quite another to get rid of your own place altogether, isn't it?"

"Are you asking me directly or just talking out loud to yourself?"

Emily exhales loudly, runs a hand through her hair and sits up to look about her flat. "Both, I suppose."

"I've no interest in any place that doesn't involve being around Katie. So the fact that she's letting me stay in her flat, well, it sort of works out rather nicely, doesn't it?"

"Jesus," Emily laughs, resting her elbow on her knee and her head in her hand. "You fancy my _sister_." As if it had all just hit her square in the chest.

"Yes, Emily. Way to plug in," Effy drones, but Emily's sure it's said with a smile.

* * *

Effy finds her in the back bedroom, sifting through odds and ends and shit she should have purged years ago. Things she'll be boxing and sending back to London on a train with her sister because her flat isn't just some sodding storage garage for Emily's shit, thanks very much.

"Help?" Effy asks, but then just lounges back onto the mattress as she says it like there was no real intent behind the offer.

"It's okay – I've nearly cleared out this bureau. How's Em?"

"Want to know a secret?" Effy asks, smiling wickedly.

"What? Has Naomi gone and knocked her up already?" Katie asks, holding up a top to her chest while watching Effy through the reflection in her mirror.

"They're debating moving in together."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Katie whirls around, watching as Effy shakes her head, then snatches her mobile from the desk and starts typing furiously.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," she responds, though when she's tossed the phone onto the mattress, Effy picks it up to see the text she's just sent to her sister.

_Stop copying me, bitch. Also, I want the butcher block back if it doesn't fit in Naomi's flat. xo _

Effy laughs, watches as Katie pulls a shirt on over her vest top, examines herself in the mirror with a dissatisfied face then pulls it back off.

"So, what's the plan for this room then? Sex den?" Effy says suggestively raising an eyebrow.

Katie blushes because, apparently, she's now the type of girl who, like, tells her girlfriend she can move in with her on a more permanent basis after a handful of weeks. The type of girl who fucking _blushes_ at the idea of tawdry sex acts with her girlfriend. And, oh yeah, also the type of girl who has a fucking _girlfriend_.

After clearing her throat and throwing four more tops into a storage box she says defiantly, "I thought maybe something more like an _office_, babe. You could sit up here doing your word puzzles during the day and pretend to, like, work or something."

Effy's mouth drops, like _literally_ drops, when Katie's managed to finish insulting her without breaking into full-on laughter. Just bites desperately onto the sides of her mouth to keep from losing it entirely. But then Effy's face does something _else_, some alluring look of determination, and then Katie feels something different bubbling at the pit of her stomach.

"Think of me that highly, do you?" Effy legs are just sliding off the bed as she speaks, slowly making her way in Katie's direction.

"Yeah, complete waste of space, obviously," Katie challenges, her pulse quickening as the gap between them narrows.

She fumbles the shirt she'd been clutching when Effy places a hand on her stomach, and it's not even like, _under_ her vest top, but her breath hitches just the same. Effy smiles down at her and says, "You're a very bad liar," just quickly and quietly enough to make every hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

The kiss is slow and hot and well, _fuck_, extremely filthy for it being midday. She's turned on so quickly that she's practically dragging Effy back towards the bed, kicking violently at the once-neatly stacked clothes and half-filled boxes. Effy's decided to put on like, _actual_ clothing for once – making removing them a bit more difficult than usual – and she makes a quick note to chastise her for this later. Before she's even managed to tear off more than Effy's top she realises the direction of Effy's mouth is heading _south_. And well, this is something new.

They make eye contact, just one quick glance when Effy's crouched between her legs at the foot of the bed, both breathing heavy with their mouths slightly parted. Then Effy licks her lips, kisses her inner thigh, and closes her eyes. So Katie goes ahead and unravels completely.

She's not even tentative about it, the way her tongue just makes this determined swipe through wet folds, and the sound that Katie makes in response is desperate and needy. Like she's probably craved this sensation her whole life without ever even knowing it existed. She feels Effy's rhythm change, feels the tip of her tongue circling her clit at impressive speeds, then the flat of it crossing back over from side to side. And, Jesus _fucking_ Christ, is Effy clumsily unsure about anything _ever_?

The answer is, apparently, no. Not very fucking likely. Because before Katie's got time to even _think_ about what she'd like to have happen next, Effy's slid two fingers inside. And she doesn't even need more than two slow pumps before Katie is grabbing at the sheets with her fingers and toes and having a rather impressively vocal orgasm.

Twenty minutes later, when she's officially abandoned any hope for finishing her organisational project, Effy pads into the room in nothing but boy shorts and carrying a pint of chocolate gelato. With a cheeky smirk, she pulls two spoons from the waistband of her shorts, hands one to Katie before climbing in beside her. And Katie wonders then, if there's some unspoken limit to how many times you should tell someone you love them in one day.

As she's sat considering it [and eyeing Effy as a by-product], the object of her affection swipes the first spoonful of gelato. And then smiles with a bit of it still melting on her tongue, "Be honest. You're reconsidering the sex den, aren't you?"

* * *

Naomi is sat on the sofa, flipping through a catalogue, and marginally paying attention to an episode of _Big Brother_ she's already seen twice. The day had been rather productive, despite its lousy and rather lonely start. The sitting room was spotless and smelled like the lemon of her floor cleaner. She'd wiped down the kitchen from floor to ceiling, even dusting above the cabinetry and behind the fridge. She also took a run, her old route back to Emirates that brought her such comfort when she needed solitude. When her life needed sorting. It wasn't as scenic as the route she'd developed with Emily, but it held its old, familiar comforts. She's got a pen cap in her mouth as she circles something on the catalogue page then tries to eyeball placing the pen back in its cap. Ends up swiping a line of ink down her top lip.

"Shitting cunt," she mumbles, wiping her thumb roughly across her mouth. Aggressively throws the offending object, once it's been capped, onto the coffee table.

The knock at her door is so quiet, if she'd had the telly on at a louder volume there's no way she would have heard it. She checks her phone quickly. No messages. Still, the hour being what it is makes the prospect of an unannounced visitor all the more suspect. So her face is less suspicious and actually rather amused when she pulls the sides of her cardigan around herself and unlatches the lock.

She opens the door to find Emily, of course, arms folded and chewing nervously on her bottom lip. Naomi's smile grows wider at the sight, but she's stopped short with her mouth opened when she attempts to speak.

"Don't even say it," Emily says dejectedly.

"Say what?" Naomi is saying when Emily slinks past her into the flat, shoulders slumped like they'd just had to forfeit a fucking match or something.

"Whatever brilliant quip of sarcasm you were forming as you made your way to the door," Emily says. And this time, with something a bit lighter in her tone.

"I didn't say anything." She raises her hands innocently, latches the door again and follows Emily into the sitting room. "What's in the bag then?" she asks, trying desperately to conceal her grin as Emily again avoids eye contact. "I mean, it can't _possibly_ be some kind of overnight bag because I distinctly remember being told this morning by my girlfriend – who, I might add, looks frighteningly similar to the girl stood in my flat at the moment – that surely we could spend _just one night_ apart."

"You finished?" Emily asks in annoyance.

Naomi shrugs. "I could go on."

"So what – what have you been doing?" Emily looks about the room. "It smells in here."

"Yeah – like fresh, fucking lemons!"

Emily smiles at her then, laughs a bit when she says, "You're the _only_ person who thinks that cleaner smells like lemons."

"You're very critical," she says, taking a step towards Emily who's arms are still crossed, though less defensively.

"Yeah, well, you're very annoying," she answers with narrowed eyes when they're stood face-to-face.

"This'll probably never work then, huh?"

"Yeah," Emily says when Naomi stops just a breath from her lips. "It's fucking hopeless."


	25. Chapter 25: Swan Song

**Author's Note:** Well, here we are. I swear I didn't plan for this last chap - number 25 - to coincide with the girls celebrating Christmas. It's just fated, I suppose. Anyway, if you thought you'd read fluff before, you haven't. Because this, my friends, is the fluffiest shit I've ever written. Here we go ...

* * *

"Stop nicking the fucking glaze cherries!" Emily leans back in the stool where she's sat, barely avoiding the wooden spoon Katie's swung at her knuckles, and licks a gooey, red glaze from her thumb and forefinger.

"Jesus, _relax_ – you've got loads. Violent outbursts aren't terribly festive, you know."

"If you're going to, like, hover in the kitchen all day, the least you could do is help," Katie is criticising, no longer concerned with Emily and her newly acquired handful of almonds. She's scanning a recipe book and stirring a thickening custard on the stovetop.

"Help _you_? In the kitchen? You're joking, right? Sorry, I don't have '_death wish_' on my Christmas list this year, thanks."

"Well then, why don't you just help by like, not eating all the ingredients before I've finished the pudding."

"I'm bored. When I'm bored," she shrugs, "I snack."

Katie makes a screeching sound of annoyance, before pulling the bowl of nuts and tin of cherries out of Emily's reach, just as Effy comes in carrying a turkey that likely weighs more than her.

"Spreading holiday cheer, are we, girls?" she asks with a smirk to a scowling Emily before setting the large bird in the sink and kissing Katie's cheek.

Emily watches as Katie leans into the gesture, any traces of annoyance completely gone when she says, "Thanks for running out, babe. Was the grocery mad with people?"

"Not too bad." Effy's stood behind her now, hands on Katie's waist and chin resting on her shoulder while Katie continues to stir the pot of thickening milk. "Smells good in here."

Emily rolls her eyes, reaches into the pocket of her hoodie for her mobile and begins typing.

"Need any help?" Effy asks.

"Yes, you can entertain my sister who can't be arsed to do anything besides eat, apparently."

"Feeling a bit lopsided without Naomi, are we?"

"She can barely function," Katie smirks wickedly over her shoulder. "Probably texting her as we speak [in a poor attempt at imitating Emily]: _Please hurry – it's been three hours and I can't breathe without you._"

"Fuck off, Katie." She doesn't look up from her phone, for fear of what she'll be faced with, because even in her periphery she can still see there's very little space between the two.

"Want to help me unload the car?" Effy asks, popping a cherry into her mouth.

"Oy! Cherry thief!" Emily hops off the stool, pointing accusingly at Effy like she's suddenly twelve years old again, though Katie looks nothing more than amused. "Oh, I see how it is - fucking double-standard," she's grumbling even as Katie grins stupidly, kisses Effy full on the mouth then licks the cherry glaze off her own lips.

Emily pulls her hood forcefully over her head, heading for the nearest doorway, "I'll show myself out, thanks."

"Bah, hum bug!" Katie shouts after her before helping herself to several more sticky, sweet kisses.

* * *

Naomi opens the message as her phone dings then smiles as she types a quick reply.

"Let me guess who's checking in on you," Gina is saying with a grin from across the sitting room, a lap full of grey wool and knitting needles.

"Sounds like she's getting a bit desperate, actually," Naomi says. "And I quote: _Hurry back – I need rescuing from sickening displays of affection compliments of K & Ef_." She tosses her phone back onto the sofa behind her and returns to the half-wrapped sat on the coffee table.

"Poor girl. How many more do you have to wrap?"

Naomi scans the piles of gifts surrounding her, mostly already tied up in ribbons and bows. "Not many. Only three more for Emily, I think."

"Three _more_? How many did you get her, dear?" Gina asks, never really looking up from her knitting.

She screws her mouth a bit, tallying a count in her head then says cautiously, "Seven?" When her mum responds by laughing and shaking her head, she defends, "Well, I couldn't decide! You think that's excessive then?"

"Well that depends – how many gifts do you suppose Emily got for you?"

"Well, I don't know really. I hadn't thought about it. Shit."

She's still thoughtfully chewing the tip of her thumbnail when Gina suggests [in a predictively unhelpful fashion] that she return half of the gifts and use the money to donate a goat in Emily's name or something.

"Yeah, sure – Heifer International. Thanks, mum. I'll keep that one in mind."

At Katie's behest, they'd moved Christmas dinner from Gina's house – as was custom to Naomi, at least – to the flat Katie shared with Effy. With Rob and James en route from Pembroke plus Gina and Naomi, it would make for some rather _cosy_ dining quarters with all seven of them crammed into the flat; but Katie could be quite insistent when she wanted to be.

So with her gifts finally wrapped and loaded into the boot of a taxi, Naomi steps up onto the pavement, pulling her mum into a quick hug.

"Katie says dinner is at six but you should come round whenever you like. Just give a call when you're ready and I'll send a taxi, alright?"

"I'm capable of calling my own transportation, Naomi."

"It's Christmas, mum. Just let me pretend for the next two days that you're unable to function without me here to care for you." She kisses the side of her head before opening the car door and climbing inside. "And don't wait too long to make your grand entrance or I'm likely to be pissed on mulled wine."

A look of genuine concern on her face, Gina admonishes, "Oh Christ, Naomi, if you're gettin' drunk off wine, I've taught you nothing. Save it for the after-dinner cocktails, dear."

* * *

It doesn't take long for James to corner Effy, and well, better Katie's girlfriend than her own, Emily thinks. She'd jumped – literally _jumped_ on her, wrapping her arms and legs around Naomi's neck and waist, like an excitable spider monkey – the second she'd entered the flat.

"Hello to you too," she'd laughed against her lips, barely stumbling backwards from Emily's exertion.

And she hadn't let her wander more than an arm's length away ever since.

So it's with a disgruntled look she lets Naomi off the seat they'd been sharing so that she can make her way upstairs for a wee.

"I'll just be a tick," Naomi says, leaving the taste of spiced wine on her lips before slipping out of the room.

So she's sat observing James and Effy, her dad occupying Katie in the kitchen where she and Gina seem to be sharing the space amicably.

"Thought you were bringing the elusive Chloe along," Effy is saying. "What happened there then?"

James shuffles in his seat, keeps a Strongbow cupped between both hands and resting between his knees. His hair keeps getting longer, an exaggerated tuft peeks out behind his ear and a long, blonde fringe hangs over one eye. Maybe it's the hair, or the trademark 'Fitch glint' in his eyes when he speaks that's gotten him a girlfriend, Emily thinks. Because it's sure as fuck not his personality.

"Shit got a bit weird when I told her that not one but _both_ my sisters were fucking girls. Pretty sure the idea of spending Christmas where the majority in attendance are muff-grabbers made her feel a bit apprehensive. She doesn't want to catch the gay or anything."

Emily watches as Effy nods thoughtfully, considering this information as she takes a long sip of bourbon. Then locks eyes with Emily for a moment before responding. "Bit of friendly advice, James?" Her brother nods eagerly, slouching less than is typical for a boy his age. "First, I should tell you that if you expect to avoid bodily harm from your sisters, or either of their '_muff-grabbing_' girlfriends, you might consider dropping language like 'muff-grabbers' from your vocabulary."

"But you just said –"

"But, more importantly," Effy's smile is hardly that – just a wicked curl at the corner of her mouth – as she finally looks away from Emily and back to James, his mouth still open from being interrupted. "Be sure to inform dear Chloe, and any other bint you intend to shag in the future, that you can't _catch_ _the gay_."

"Yeah, well, you did, didn't you?"

"How do you figure?"

James takes a loud gulp from the can he's been holding. "Katie says you used to fuck loads of guys – mostly with rubbish hair and shitty hygiene."

Katie's found her way beside the sofa then, refreshing Effy's drink and absently twirling her finger around the curls of hair at the nape of Effy's neck.

"I didn't catch gay, James. I caught Fitch." Effy smiles up at Katie and, despite the need to roll her eyes, Emily can't help but feel a bit warmed by the display just the same.

Realisation seems to dawn on James then who props a foot onto the coffee table and rests his hand on Effy's knee. "So you're saying you're _not_ gay then?"

"Would you mind terribly _not_ fondling my girlfriend, you fucking pervert," Katie says as Effy is removing his hand, lifting it off her leg with two fingers like it carries diseases. "And," Katie kicks at James' leg until his foot drops with a thud from the coffee table, "keep your feet off my furniture while you're at it."

"Emily does it," James argues, looking to Emily who's been silently enjoying the entire exchange. She shrugs, as if to say: you're on your own.

"Well, I'd hardly say that _Emily_ is the person after whom you should model behaviour, James." Katie smiles sweetly at her, her tone dripping with insincerity.

Emily's flipped her off with a mirrored smile as Naomi enters the room again saying, "Well, isn't this a lovely picture of familial affection."

* * *

Dinner goes over fucking brilliantly and even James manages to not act like a complete tit in front of Naomi's mum. She's letting a few dishes soak in the sink, finally pulling off her apron, when Effy appears in the kitchen wearing a smirk Katie melts over every, fucking time.

"What is it?" she says without being able to keep herself from smiling like an idiot.

Effy's got her hands behind her back and when they're stood face to face says, "Pick a hand, any hand." Like she's some kind of sodding magician at the circus.

So Katie rolls her eyes, reaches out and touches Effy's left arm.

Then it's Effy's turn to roll her eyes. "Pick the _other_ hand."

When Katie's complied, tapped her _right_ arm instead, Effy reveals what she's been holding, and Katie's face turns crimson. Because in Effy's hand is a box. A rectangular box wrapped in fucking pink, shiny paper. She cuts her eyes quickly towards the sitting room before turning them back on Effy, who's smiling like she's quite proud of herself.

"Elizabeth Stonem, I swear to _fucking_ god, if there's a bloody vibrat –"

"Just open it," she says calmly. "I know we're doing presents in a few, but I wanted you to open this one, you know, privately."

Katie eyes her a second longer before turning her back on the sitting room, and ripping at the paper while hunched over the counter. Figures if it turns out Effy _did_ get her a sex toy for Christmas she could at least, like, shove it quickly in a drawer if someone walks into the kitchen. "Oh yeah, thanks for having the decorum to at least let me, like, unwrap a dildo _away_ from my dad and brother. But this is still well awkward …"

Her voice doesn't trail off so much as it just dies right in her throat.

"Shit." Is all she can think to say next. Like her brain isn't capable of forming anything beyond four-letter words. Because the petite gold bracelet, shining against the black velvet of the box has retarded her thought process.

"Do you like it or … I mean, I could always return it in exchange for the vibrator if you had your heart set on it." Effy's joking, or rather her tone is joking, but the look of uncertainty in her eyes is all Katie can see.

So she only says, "Shut up," mere seconds before kissing her against the kitchen counter.

When Katie pulls back, it's only to examine the jewellery again. This time pulling it from the box and letting it dangle between her fingers. Which is when she sees a small, round charm attached near the clasp. It's not big enough to be an actual charm. Looks more like something the jeweller might have attached, stamped with his signature or initials or something. But it's not that either. Katie looks back to Effy who's watching her intently, that same look of uncertainty washed over her ridiculously beautiful face. And Katie's stomach flips when she lays the tiny disc flat against her palm to get a better look because there's definitely something etched onto one side.

It's not letters but numbers. A date. A date she doesn't recognise. And the jumping in her stomach is replaced quickly by panic.

Shit. She doesn't remember. _Double_ shit. Effy's still waiting for a reaction.

"Babe, I'm like really, really touched by the sentiment, but I've got to be honest," she starts.

But then Effy throws her a fucking line, like always. Looks to the floor when she says, "It's the day you came to hospital. I mean the day I was – but then you, and then – then I was better. It's the day you made things better."

Effy never fucking stutters or stumbles over her words and rarely even averts her eyes to speak so Katie's a bit distracted by the _way_ Effy's speaking when she finally realises _what_ she's just said. And then she feels tears brimming her eyes that only get worse when Effy finally, like, looks at her. And she smiles at her, which makes Katie feel less like her insides are going to explode right out of her chest.

"Stop, your make-up will run." Effy runs her thumbs under each eye, cupping her hands to Katie's face.

"It's your fault. Making me fucking cry on Christmas," Katie sniffles. Then considers Effy for a minute before saying, "You know, I think it's good you're someone of such few words."

"Yeah, why's that?"

"Because when you _do_ speak, you say the best, fucking things."

* * *

Katie pulls back, an embarrassed flush of pink on her cheeks and ears when Gina breezes through the kitchen. And, fucking hell, it could have been minutes or hours for how much her lips are buzzing from kissing Effy.

"Oh, don't mind me, dears. Just coming in to flip on the kettle."

"Thanks, Gina." Katie steps back slightly from Effy, blushing brighter when Gina winks at her and squeezes her shoulder cap.

"You don't need to rush on my account, but I believe Emily is ready to combust if she's got to wait any longer to open her prezzies," Gina says as she busies herself with the kettle.

"Christ, it's like she regresses to primary school every time she's in the same room as a fucking Christmas tree."

"Come on then," Effy laughs, slips her hand into Katie's and tugs lightly. "If she starts a fit, I'll let you throw candy canes at her."

* * *

"Ems, this thing weighs a fucking ton," Naomi says, lugging her last boxed present from the tree to where they're sat on the floor. "What've you wrapped in here – lead weights?"

"Yeah, well, I've got to keep you fit in the off-season, haven't I?"

"Funny." She sits back down, legs criss-crossed in front of the package, and looks to Emily who's wearing two mismatched jumpers [one from her Gran, the other from Katie], a woolly cowl and matching hat from Gina, and new trainers from Naomi. She's perched on her knees and grinning like a tit.

Everyone's ripping open presents in random succession, shouting thanks, laughing loudly, squealing in excitement across the room, and filling the flat with wonderfully, chaotic sounds. But Emily and Naomi have gathered in a spot on the floor near a window – sort of sequestered themselves behind her dad, who's sat in the reading chair, and the tree.

So Naomi takes advantage of their semi-isolation, leans over the large box between them, and kisses her.

"What was that for?" Emily asks a moment later.

"No reason," she says. Because despite the attire – the lopsided cap and horribly unfortunate fuzzy jumper from Granny Fitch – Emily can't seem help herself from being incredibly irresistible. "So, open it?"

Emily's head bobs furiously, her fingers twitching to help with the shiny paper so she sits on her hands and presses her lips together. Naomi hesitates, watching her for only a moment, then distracts herself from a sudden urge to kiss her again by tearing away at the package. Inside the box is more paper, but the dull kind used to wrap glass and fragile things.

She pulls out the first item from its rough, brown paper: a framed photo of the Emirates pitch at dawn, a brilliant blast of sun peeking out on one side of the stadium.

"Wow, it's beautiful." She sets it aside, reaching in for another and eyeing Emily, who's finally calmed herself a bit. Another picture frame – this one of an outdoor café and Naomi squints her eyes at it, trying desperately to place it until she looks up at Emily again and the realisation hits her.

"Your first day in London," she says, and Emily nods. Then Naomi laughs, looking back at the photo, "God, you were a twitchy one that day."

"I thought I'd bloody _snogged_ the captain of The Gunners on my first night out with the squad – of _course_ I was fucking nervous," Emily adorably defends herself, letting the beaming smile she's been wearing slip only minutely.

Naomi only laughs harder, setting the photo aside. "Little did you know, Bristol. Little did you know."

"Alright, keep going!" Emily says, tapping the box.

Now that she's onto the theme of the gift, Naomi doesn't need encouragement and hurriedly reaches for the next picture frame. Tears away at the paper with less finesse and bites her lip when she sees the photo. The photo – a small, white gazebo, surrounded by trim hedges – is rather innocent. The implication, is not.

"Emily," she sighs, shaking her head.

"What? It's one of my favourite spots along the towpath." She's unable to hide her cheeky grin even behind the cocktail glass she's conveniently drinking from. "It's so secluded with foliage in summers," she starts, fondly casting her eyes towards the ceiling, "hidden away from the foot traffic around the canal, that you could _literally_ get away with just about anything back there, you know?"

"No," Naomi says shortly, her mouth a thin line. "I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea what you're on about." Her eyes are widened in warning, a finger pointing dramatically at the back of the chair where Emily's _father_ is sat, for fuck's sake. But when Emily only giggles in response, Naomi clears her throat and says, "But it's a lovely picture."

There's only one item left in the box, and after feeling her face flush from the last photo, Naomi rather quickly and unceremoniously gets to the business of unwrapping the final picture frame. She's a little under-prepared then, for what she sees when she's flipped it over. It's much larger than the rest, and much heavier, Naomi realising now why the box weighed 13 tonnes. The frame holds not one but eight photos.

"These are …" but she can't finish the thought when her eyes land on the picture in the bottom right corner.

"These are the best of the collection, so to speak. Or, in my humble opinion anyway," Emily says with a smile that's more timid than she's seen all day. "You asked me what I planned to do with them, and I finally decided – well, I thought you should have them."

"The best of the collection, ey?" Naomi echoes, finally looking up to her. "Even this one?" She's pointing to the last photo in the corner, the one she thought she'd never actually get to see. The one that sort of started and ended it all in one go.

But Emily doesn't even have to look down to know where she's gesturing – just brightens her smile and says, "_Especially_ that one."

She smiling too – first at Emily then back at the arrangement of photos, still all printed in black and white as she remembers them – and though it's smaller scale, too small to make out the letters, the white poster is unmistakable.

"So you like them?"

"I _love_ them."

"I just thought since there's so many bare walls at yours." Naomi, who has been looking among all the prints, examining each one again, looks up sharply for a moment. But when her look softens and she raises her eyebrows, Emily clears her throat. "I mean, _ours_." She blushes at that, the faintest pink colouring her neck, and it's just the final straw before Naomi is pulling her by the woolly cowl and kissing her again.

"I was worried it was sort of a shit gift – you know, giving you a stack of pictures that I've taken. Or a bit arrogant or something, I don't know."

"Stop it – I love them. And, I love you. They're brilliant. The perfect gift," Naomi says.

"Oh." And then she's reaching around behind her, pulling something from a back pocket, and Naomi eyes her carefully. "Then I guess I shouldn't have bothered with these." She sighs, tosses two slips of paper that are quite unmistakably airline tickets into Naomi's lap.

"What – no!" She fumbles for them, scanning the information until she sees the destination is, "Paris?!"

"For the new year – what do you think? You can impress me with your rubbish attempts at speaking French."

"Are you fucking kidding me or what?!"

"Nope. We leave in two days."

"Fucking hell, here mum had me worried I'd overdone it with _your_ presents."

"Your mum knew about the trip," Emily laughs in confusion, twisting a bit to see Gina watching them from her seat beside James.

"Nice, mum. Real nice."

"Il n'y a pas de quoi, my dear." Gina's eyes twinkle at her daughter before winking at Emily.

"Come here, will you?" Naomi's tone is nearly agitated as she shoves the empty box separating them out of the way.

So Emily crawls up close, settling between her outstretched legs and settles against her chest when Naomi wraps both arms around her. Then shudders involuntarily when Naomi whispers into her ear, "I'll thank you properly for all this later."

* * *

The bracelet looks fucking mint and she can't stop staring at it for more than like, ten minutes before the delicate, gold sparkle will catch her eye while unwrapping a gift or taking a sip of wine. Effy keeps noticing and responds with a soft touch to her leg or quick peck on her cheek and if she weren't so totally resigned to it, she'd be completely, fucking annoyed with how loved up they've become.

Her dad looks pretty good, she thinks. Been assessing him regularly since his arrival and the emptiness, it's apparent. But it's not all-consuming the way it had been just six weeks earlier. She talks to him every day now – rings him up to hear about his work, about the changes he's making to the house, about what a shit James can be when he's not also being the best friend he's got. He smiles over at her, holds up the leather driving gloves she bought him, and she thinks: _yeah, we'll get through this. Definitely_.

Katie's clutching a photo she'd opened from Emily, and it's without question, the best gift she'd opened this year [save the bracelet, naturally].

"Found a shitload of unprocessed film while we were back at Mum and Dad's," Emily had told her. And just as Katie had considered making a lewd comment about her chancing to discover naked photos of their parents, she'd ripped back the paper to see the photo which shut her up quickly. "It's you and mum."

"I know what it is, stupid," she'd said without an ounce of cruelty, not tearing her eyes away from it for one second. "It's fucking lovely, Ems."

Katie, who rarely spent time away from her father growing up, couldn't have been more than two or three in the photo. But she's sat on her mum's lap – a small, chubby hand reaching out to touch her mum's cheek – with Emily nowhere around. And the times they'd been photographed _separately_, could probably be counted on one hand. The twin curse was that they were _always_ together, until they were old enough to decide otherwise.

So she's looking at it again, just running her finger lightly along its edges and wishing she could remember the moment. But then Effy lays her head onto her shoulder and she thinks about a lot of other moments that she _can_ remember. She thinks about the connections she's made since leaving home. And it's not like she stopped having a family – she'd always have them in some ways: Dad, Mum, even pervy James and his refusal to like, grow up. But when things fell apart back home and she knew Emily would soon leave it all behind – leave _her_ behind – it was without pause that she made the transition with her. She'd always been attached to Emily in that way. And even if they never discussed it, because they weren't those sisters who constantly shared their _feelings_ or whatever, she knows Emily's never really felt the same towards her.

When Effy winds their fingers together, Katie holds on tightly. She thinks about how she'd left Pembroke to keep up with Emily and ended up finding Effy, of all people. But then, it hadn't really happened that way at all.

And she remembers then the moment she came clean to Effy – the same morning, in fact, she'd also stood starkers in her fucking bedroom and let Effy like, touch her for the first time – about how it was Emily who'd first taken to her. But then Effy kisses the back of her hand before slipping away to the kitchen – casting one, quick glance over her shoulder at Katie – and she thinks about how Effy had made all that irrelevant by telling Katie that _she_ was, in fact, _hers_.

Which is when she finally looks over to her sister and wonders about that rather incomplete puzzle. Realises how structurally, the dynamic she'd always favoured – the comfort and security of the little threesome they'd formed with Effy in Bristol – is horribly unbalanced if you're _Emily_. Because if Emily had Effy – and she always sort of would, in some ways. And Effy had Katie – indefinitely, Katie thinks, as Effy settles back down next to her with a fresh drink. Then where did that leave Emily?

But then she watches them. And for once doesn't feel the need to like, toss up her dinner or shout obscenely for them to grope in private, for fuck's sake. Because it's actually rather lovely the way they're sat. The way Naomi's got her arms wrapped around Emily's waist and the way both their hands are linked up, resting along Emily's stomach. The way her sister – wildly independent and constantly unnerved by people that love her – is _letting_ it happen. And then it hits her. That Emily had obviously felt the imbalance all along. And Katie smiles then as Emily catches her eye, and thinks, _Of course – it's why she went looking for Naomi_.

* * *

**Final commentary:** Well, there you have it. What do you think? I really can't wait to hear _your_ final commentary.

I just have to say a very quick [but very massive] thanks to some absolutely brilliant reviewers who have stuck with this story since its onset. I'm just so grateful for them every update. Let me be clear that I love ALL the reviews, but well, these lovelies go above and beyond. So big thanks to my favourite Keffy shipper fookyeahskins; thanks to the best guest reviewers on the planet: Ashby & Naomilyfan; thanks to Hypes [who is responsible for igniting my Keffy obsession] and niceoneblondie and oh god, crevette [who says just the loveliest things] and marsupial1974 [I'm still waiting on my cape, thanks] and of course pitapumpkineater who makes me laugh - without fail - every time I read a review.

Writing this has been immensely gratifying and the fact that you all came along and enjoyed it the way you did is just icing on the fucking cake. Until next time - CHEERS!


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